s.
Also the pedlar thought they sang 'farewell'
In words like this, and that the words in French
Were written by the hapless Queen herself,
When as a girl she left the vines of France
For Scotland and the halls of Holyrood:--

I

Though thy hands have plied their trade
Eighty years without a rest,
Robin Scarlet, never thy spade
Built a house for such a guest!
Carry her where, in earliest June,
All the whitest hawthorns blow;
Carry her under the midnight moon,
Singing very soft and low.
Slow between the low green larches, carry the lovely lady sleeping,
Past the low white moon-lit farms, along the lilac-shadowed way!
Carry her through the summer darkness, weeping, weeping, weeping, weeping!
Answering only, to any that ask you, whence ye carry her,--_Fotheringhay!_

II

She was gayer than a child!
--_Let your torches droop for sorrow._--
Laughter in her eyes ran wild!
--_Carry her down to Peterboro'._--
Words were kisses in her mouth!
--_Let no word of blame be spoken._--
She was Queen of all the South!
--_In the North, her heart was broken._--
They should have left her in her vineyards, left her heart to her
land's own keeping,
Left her white breast room to breathe, and left her light foot free
to dance.
Out of the cold grey Northern mists, we carry her weeping,
weeping, weeping,--
_O, ma patrie,
La plus cherie,
Adieu, plaisant pays de France!_

III

Many a red heart died to beat
--_Music swelled in Holyrood!_--
Once, beneath her fair white feet.
--_Now the floors may rot with blood_--
She was young and her deep hair--
--_Wind and rain were all her fate!_--
Trapped young Love as in a snare,
--_And the wind's a sword in the Canongate!
Edinboro'!
Edinboro'!
Music built the towers of Troy, but thy grey walls are built of sorrow!_
Wind-swept hills, and sorrowful glens, of thrifty sowing and iron reaping,
What if her foot were fair as a sunbeam, how should it touch or
melt your snows?
What