In Holyrood

Fifty pipers Queen Mary had

With bonnet and kilt of Stuart plaid,

A gleaming dirk at each bare knee,

And the bagpipes swelling lustily—

Angus and Alan and Douglas, all

Piping her into the banquet hall,

In Holyrood, in Holyrood.

Sleet and mist in the Canongate,

Firelight warm on the robes of state

Where rose and lily and thistle twine,

Wrought for a lass of the royal line—

A lass too slight for that heavy train,

With a heart too gay for all the pain

In Holyrood, in Holyrood.

Then, as the pipes shrilled high and clear,

Stole on that young Queen's heart a fear.

Out of the shadows dim it came,

Too young a fear to have a name,

And she felt the breath on her bronze-brown hair

Of old, old ghosts who watched her there

In Holyrood, in Holyrood.