Alas! Poor Queen

She rode through Liddesdale with a song;

'Ye streams sae wondrous strang,

Oh, mak' me a wrack as I come back

But spare me as I gang.'

While a hill-bird cried and cried

Like a spirit lost

By the grey storm-wind tost.

Consider the way she had to go,

Think of the hungry snare,

The net she herself had woven,

Aware or unaware,

Of the dancing feet grown still,

The blinded eyes -

Queens should be cold and wise,

And she loved little things,

Parrots

And red-legged partridges

And the golden fishes of the Duc de Guise

And the pigeon with the blue ruff

She had from Monsieur d'Elboeuf.