TO MARY THE BLESSÈD MOTHER.

(FROM AN OLD ENGLISH PASSION PLAY, OF DATE 1264).

JAIL, O hail, all peerless Maiden!

"HA

Thine enclasping arm is laden,

With a child whose ages number
God's eternity.

Let us worship him in slumber
On his mother's knee.

The nicht-bird croaks fra' eerie,

On the auld castle wa'

An' aye it sings sae weirdly

Oh, dinna' gang awa’

Dinna leave the braw Scotch hills,
Whaur hearts are gude an' true,

And dinna cross the border,

Or sair the day ye'll rue."

I had a wakefu' dream yestreen,
Of treason, bluidy red—
I saw a ghastly marchin'
Gae slowly past my bed;
I saw an axe like siller

A dark cheil' bore alang,
An' roon' him flew the corbie
Wi' his uncanny sang—

"Had ye no' left the mountains, Whaur hearts are guid an' true,

Had

ye

no' crossed the border

Ye wadna' had tae rue."

She crossed the Scottish border,

She met her Judas frien';

Waes me for Mary Stuart,

Our bonny martyr Queen,

Weary fa' ye Jezebel,

There's bluid upon yer name, Time ne'er will wipe the stainin'

Fra' yer unqueenly fame.

She pined for mony winters,
Then paid a debt, no due.
Sae fell our Scottish Mary-

The corbie's sang cam' true.

WILLIAM LYLE.

QUEEN MARY AT FOTHERINGAY.

H, wearily and woe is me!

Ah, wearily the time drifts on;

Unrestful, of a verity,

The life whose love of life is gone, No heartsome sports the hours engross, A nerveless round consumes the day, To broider hems, or gaze across

The dreary flats of Fotheringay.

I hear, through distant forest glades
The falconer ride by the banks of Nenne,
'Mid tuneful madrigals of maids

And deep toned notes of Englishmen.
I'd rather be the dove they kill,

Sating their talons with my blood, Than being a falcon at their will Return obedient to the hood.

What love, what royal clemency,
O, sister Queen, Elizabeth,
Yon gloomy bastions testify,

This captive woman witnesseth!

My realm four roods of prison ground,
Four faithful leiges left alone,

My Maries four, that hover round
Their Mary's shadow of a throne.

O! Mary mother, maid divine,

That sittest in the height serene,
A sorry plight on earth was mine
To be a woman and a Queen!
Soon may these mortal prison bars,
Before my white winged soul be riven
Soon may it soar above the stars

And win the bonnie hills of Heaven.

MAG. ART.

QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM

LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

(AIR: HIGHLAND BOAT).

UT off, put off, and row with speed!
Tofu's the time and the hour of need!

PUT

For

To oars, to oars, and trim the bark,

Nor Scotland's Queen be a warder's mark;
Yon light that plays round the castle's moat
Is only the warder's random shot;
Put off, put off, and row with speed,

For now is the time and the hour of need!

Those pond'rous keys* shall the kelpie's keep,
And lodge in their caverns dark and deep;
Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall,

Hold our lovely lady Queen in thrall;
Or be the haunt of traitors, sold-

While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold;
Then steersman, steersman, on with speed,
For now is the time and the hour of need!

Hark! the alarm-bell hath rung,

And the warder's voice hath "Treason!
The echoes to the falconets roar,
Chime softly to the dashing oar.

Let town and hall, and battlements gleam,
We steer by the light of the taper's beam.
For "Scotland and Mary!" on with speed,
For now is the time, and the hour of need!

sung;

MARY.

[F there's a word that whispers love

I'

In gentlest tones to hearts of woe,
If there's a name more prized above
And loved with deeper love below,
'Tis Mary.

*The keys of her prison; since found in the lake.