Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring.

I.         Now Nature hangs her mantle green             On every blooming tree,         And spreads her sheets o' daisies white             Out o'er the grassy lea:         Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,             And glads the azure skies;         But nought can glad the weary wight             That fast in durance lies. II.         Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,             Aloft on dewy wing;         The merle, in his noontide bow'r,             Makes woodland echoes ring;         The mavis wild wi' mony a note,             Sings drowsy day to rest:         In love and freedom they rejoice,             Wi' care nor thrall opprest. III.         Now blooms the lily by the bank,             The primrose down the brae;         The hawthorn's budding in the glen,             And milk-white is the slae;         The meanest hind in fair Scotland             May rove their sweets amang;         But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,             Maun lie in prison strang! IV.         I was the Queen o' bonnie France,             Where happy I hae been;         Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,             As blythe lay down at e'en:         And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland,             And mony a traitor there;         Yet here I lie in foreign bands             And never-ending care. V.         But as for thee, thou false woman!             My sister and my fae,         Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword             That thro' thy soul shall gae!         The weeping blood in woman's breast             Was never known to thee;         Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe             Frae woman's pitying e'e. VI.         My son! my son! may kinder stars             Upon thy fortune shine;         And may those pleasures gild thy reign,             That ne'er wad blink on mine!         God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,             Or turn their hearts to thee:         And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend             Remember him for me! VII.         O! soon, to me, may summer suns             Nae mair light up the morn!         Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds             Wave o'er the yellow corn!         And in the narrow house o' death             Let winter round me rave;         And the next flow'rs that deck the spring             Bloom on my peaceful grave!