The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,
And weeps the weary day, 290
The war against her native soil,
Her monarch's risk in battle broil:--
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile
Upon the harp to play. 295
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er
The strings her fingers flew;
And as she touch'd and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom's rise and fall
Was plainer given to view; 300
For, all for heat, was laid aside
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitch'd her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring; 305
And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play!
At length, upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity, 310
A soft, yet lively, air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung:--