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Each bard attuned the loyal lay,

And for Dunedin hied away;

Each harp was strung in woodland bower, In praise of beauty's bonniest flower.

The chiefs forsook their ladies fair;

The priest his beads and books of prayer ;

The farmer left his harvest day,

The shepherd all his flocks to stray;

The forester forsook the wood,

And hasted on to Holyrood.

After a youth, by woes o'ercast,

After a thousand sorrows past,
The lovely Mary once again

Set foot upon her native plain;
Kneeled on the pier with modest grace,
And turned to heaven her beauteous face.
"Twas then the caps in air were blended,
A thousand thousand shouts ascended;
Shivered the breeze around the throng;
Gray barrier cliffs the peals prolong;

And every tongue gave thanks to Heaven, That Mary to their hopes was given.

Her comely form and graceful mien,
Bespoke the Lady and the Queen ;
The woes of one so fair and young,
Moved every heart and every tongue.
Driven from her home, a helpless child,
To brave the winds and billows wild:

An exile bred in realms afar,

Amid commotion, broil, and war.

In one short year her hopes all crossed,-
A parent, husband, kingdom lost!
And all ere eighteen years had shed
Their honours o'er her royal head.

For such a Queen, the Stuarts' heir,

A Queen so courteous, young, and fair,

Who would not every foe defy!

Who would not stand! who would not die!

Light on her airy steed she sprung,

Around with golden tassels hung,

No chieftain there rode half so free,

Or half so light and gracefully.

How sweet to see her ringlets pale

Wide waving in the southland gale,

Which through the broom-wood blossoms flew, To fan her cheeks of rosy hue!

Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen,

What beauties in her form were seen!

And when her courser's mane it

swung,

A thousand silver bells were rung.
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain,
A Scot shall never see again.

When Mary turned her wondering eyes
On rocks that seemed to prop the skies;
On palace, park, and battled pile;
On lake, on river, sea, and isle;

O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew,

To distant mountains wild and blue;

She thought the isle that gave her birth,

The sweetest, wildest land on earth.

Slowly she ambled on her way

Amid her lords and ladies gay.

Priest, abbot, layman, all were there,
And Presbyter with look severe.

There rode the lords of France and Spain,

Of England, Flanders, and Lorraine,

While serried thousands round them stood, From shore of Leith to Holyrood.

Though Mary's heart was light as air

To find a home so wild and fair;

To see a gathered nation by,

And rays of joy from every eye;

Though frequent shouts the welkin broke,
Though courtiers bowed and ladies spoke,
An absent look they oft could trace
Deep settled on her comely face.

Was it the thought, that all alone

She must support a rocking throne?

That Caledonia's rugged land

Might scorn a Lady's weak command,

And the Red Lion's haughty eye
Scowl at a maiden's feet to lie?

No; 'twas the notes of Scottish song,
Soft pealing from the countless throng.
So mellowed came the distant swell,
That on her ravished ear it fell
Like dew of heaven, at evening close,

On forest flower or woodland rose.
For Mary's heart, to nature true,
The powers of song and music knew:
But all the choral measures bland,
Of anthems sung in southern land,
Appeared an useless pile of art,
Unfit to sway or melt the heart,

Compared with that which floated by,-
Her simple native melody.

As she drew nigh the Abbey stile, She halted, reined, and bent the while:

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