And now, ye Scottish maids who have heard

Dread things of the days grown old,— Even at the last, of true Queen Jane

May somewhat yet be told,

And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake Dire vengeance manifold.

'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth, In the fair-lit Death-chapelle,

That the slain King's corpse on bier was lain

With chaut and requiem-knell.

And all with royal wealth of balm
Was the body purified:

And none could trace on the brow and lips

The death that he had died.

In his robes of state he lay asleep
With orb and sceptre in hand;
And by the crown he wore on his throne
Was his kingly forehead spann'd.

And, girls, 't was a sweet sad thing to see
How the curling golden hair,
As in the day of the poet's youth,

From the King's crown clustered there.

And if all had come to pass in the brain

That throbbed beneath those curls, Then Scots had said in the days to come That this their soil was a different home And a different Scotland, girls!

And the Queen sat by him night and day,
And oft she knelt in prayer,
All wan and pale in the widow's veil
That shrouded her shining hair.

And I had got good help of my hurt:
And only to me some sign

She made; and save the priests that were there

No face would she see but mine.

And the month of March wore on apace;
And now fresh couriers fared
Still from the country of the Wild Scots
With news of the traitors snared.

And still as I told her day by day, Her pallor changed to sight,

And the frost grew to a furnace-flame That burnt her visage white.

And evermore as I brought her word, She bent to her dead King James, And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath

She spoke the traitors' names.

But when the name of Sir Robert Græme Was the one she had to give,

I ran to hold her up from the floor; For the froth was on her lips, and sore I feared that she could not live.

And the month of March wore nigh to its end,

And still was the death-pall spread ; For she would not bury her slaughtered lord

Till his slayers all were dead.

And now of their dooms dread tidings

came,

And of torments fierce and dire; And nought she spake,-she had ceased to speak,

But her eyes were a soul on fire. But when I told her the bitter end Of the stern and just award, She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice three times

She kissed the lips of her lord.

And then she said,-“ My King, they are dead!"

And she knelt on the chapel-floor, And whispered low with a strange proud smile,

"James, James, they suffered more!"

Last she stood up to her queenly height,
But she shook like an autumn leaf,
As though the fire wherein she burned
Then left her body, and all were turned
To winter of life-long grief.

And "O James!" she said,-"My
James!" she said.-
"Alas for the woful thing,
That a poet true and a friend of man,
In desperate days of bale and ban,

Should needs be born a King!" 1881.

And ever together

In the solemn weather

Moved his banner and lance;

And the holly trapping,

The steel over-lapping,

Did shimmer and shiver, and dance.

Back reined the squires
Till they saw the spires
Over the city wall;
Ten fathoms between us,

No dames could have seen us
Tilt from the city wall.

There we sat upright

Till the full midnight

Should be told from the city's chimes; Sharp from the towers

Leaped forth the showers

Of the many clanging rhymes.

"Twas the midnight hour, Deep from the tower

Boom'd the following bell;

Down go our lances,

Shout for the lances!

The last toll was his knell.

There he lay, dying:

He had, for his lying,

A spear in his traitorous mouth;

A false tale made he

Of my true, true lady;

But the spear went through his mouth.

In the winter weather

We rode back together

From the broad mead under the hill; And the cock sung his warning As it grew toward morning,

But the far-off hound was still.

Black grew his tower
As we rode down lower,

Black from the barren hill;
And our horses strode

Up the winding road

To the gateway dim and still.

At the gate of his tower, In the quiet hour,

We laid his body there; But his helmet broken, We took as a token;

Shout for my lady fair!

We rode back together
In the wintry weather

From the broad mead under the hill;

No cloud did darken

The night; we did harken

How the hound bay'd from the hill. January, 1856.1

RIDING TOGETHER

FOR many, many days together
The wind blew steady from the East;
For many days hot grew the weather,
About the time of our Lady's Feast.

For many days we rode together,
Yet met we neither friend nor foe;
Hotter and clearer grew the weather,
Steadily did the East wind blow.

We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,

Clear-cut, with shadows very black, As freely we rode on together

With helms unlaced and bridles slack.

And often as we rode together,

We, looking down the green-bank'd stream,

Saw flowers in the sunny weather, And saw the bubble-making bream.

And in the night lay down together. And hung above our heads the rood, Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather,

The while the moon did watch the wood.

Our spears stood bright and thick together,

Straight out the banners stream'd behind,

As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, With faces turn'd towards the wind.

Down sank our threescore spears together,

As thick we saw the pagans ride; His eager face in the clear fresh weather, Shone out that last time by my side.

Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together,

It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears,

1 The dates for Morris's poems have been com piled with the help of Mr. Temple Scott's excellent Bibliography of the Works of William Morris, and r Formau's The Books of William Morris