A Poem about
Mary
By Marion Angus
Click to listen to this
poem
Alas! Poor Queen.
She was skilled in music and the
dance,
And the old arts of love,
At the court of the poisoned rose,
And the perfumed glove,
And gave her beautiful hand to the pale
Dauphin,
A triple crown to win,
And she loved little dogs,
And parrots,
And the red-legged partridges,
And the golden fishes of the Duc de Guise,
And a pigeon with a blue ruff,
She had from Monsieur d'Elboeuf.
Master John Knox was no friend to
her;
She spoke him soft and kind,
Her honeyed words were Satan's lure,
The unwary soul to bind.
"Good sir, doth a lissome shape
And a comely face,
Offend your God His Grace,
Whose Wisdom maketh these,
Golden fishes of the Duc de Guise?"
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.
(Publisher Faber & Faber, London)
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