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The martyr Queen, ere that her fortunes knew
A darker shade than cast her favourite yew,
Loved Darnley passing well—
Loved him with tender woman's generous love,
And bade farewell awhile to courtly state
And pageantry for yon o'ershadowing grove—
For the lone river's banks where small birds sing—
Their little hearts with summer joys elate—
Where tall broom blossoms, flowers profusely spring;
There he, the most exalted of the land,
Pressed, with the grace of youth, a Sovereign's peerless hand.
And she did die!—
Die as a traitor—in the brazen gaze
Of her—a kinswoman and enemy—
O well may such an act my soul amaze!
My country, at that hour, where slept thy sword?
Where was the high and chivalrous accord,
To fling the avenging banner of our land,
Like sheeted flame, forth to the winds of heaven?
O shame among the nations—thus to brook
The damning stain to thy escutcheon given!
How could thy sons upon their mothers look,
Degenerate Scotland! heedless of the wail
Of thy lorn Queen, in her captivity!
