From: Alt.Atheism@aol.com   
      
   I CATHERINE am a Douglas born,   
   A name to all Scots dear;   
   And Kate Barlass they've called me now   
   Through many a waning year.   
   This old arm's withered now. 'Twas once   
   Most deft 'mong maidens all   
   To rein the steed, to wing the shaft,   
   To smite the palm-play ball.   
   In hall adown the close-linked dance   
   It has shone most white and fair;   
   It has been the rest for a true lord's head,   
   And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed,   
   And the bar to a King's chambère.   
   Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass,   
   And hark with bated breath   
   How good King James, King Robert's son,   
   Was foully done to death.   
   Through all the days of his gallant youth   
   The princely James was pent,   
   By his friends at first and then by his foes,   
   In long imprisonment.   
   For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir,   
   By treason's murderous brood   
   Was slain; and the father quaked for the child   
   With the royal mortal blood.   
   I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care,   
   Was his childhood's life assured;   
   And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke,   
   Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke   
   His youth for long years immured.   
   Yet in all things meet for a kingly man   
   Himself did he approve;   
   And the nightingale through his prison-wall   
   Taught him both lore and love.   
   For once, when the bird's song drew him close   
   To the opened window-pane,   
   In her bower beneath a lady stood,   
   A light of life to his sorrowful mood,   
   Like a lily amid the rain.   
   And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note,   
   He framed a sweeter Song,   
   More sweet than ever a poet's heart   
   Gave yet to the English tongue.   
   She was a lady of royal blood;   
   And when, past sorrow and teen,   
   He stood where still through his crownless years   
   His Scotish realm had been,   
   At Scone were the happy lovers crowned,   
   A heart-wed King and Queen.   
   But the bird may fall from the bough of youth,   
   And song be turned to moan,   
   And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow of Hate,   
   When the tempest-waves of a troubled State   
   Are beating against a throne.   
   Yet well they loved; and the god of Love,   
   Whom well the King had sung,   
   Might find on the earth no truer hearts   
   His lowliest swains among.   
   From the days when first she rode abroad   
   With Scotish maids in her train,   
   I Catherine Douglas won the trust   
   Of my mistress sweet Queen Jane.   
   And oft she sighed, “To be born a King!”   
   And oft along the way   
   When she saw the homely lovers pass   
   She has said, “Alack the day!”   
   Years waned,—the loving and toiling years:   
   Till England's wrong renewed   
   Drove James, by outrage cast on his crown,   
   To the open field of feud.   
   'Twas when the King and his host were met   
   At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold,   
   The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp   
   With a tale of dread to be told.   
   And she showed him a secret letter writ   
   That spoke of treasonous strife,   
   And how a band of his noblest lords   
   Were sworn to take his life.   
   “And it may be here or it may be there,   
   In the camp or the court,” she said:   
   “But for my sake come to your people's arms   
   And guard your royal head.”   
   Quoth he, “'Tis the fifteenth day of the siege,   
   And the castle's nigh to yield.”   
   “O face your foes on your throne,” she cried,   
   “And show the power you wield;   
   And under your Scotish people's love   
   You shall sit as under your shield.”   
   At the fair Queen's side I stood that day   
   When he bade them raise the siege,   
   And back to his Court he sped to know   
   How the lords would meet their Liege.   
   But when he summoned his Parliament,   
   The louring brows hung round,   
   Like clouds that circle the mountain-head   
   Ere the first low thunders sound.   
   For he had tamed the nobles' lust   
   And curbed their power and pride,   
   And reached out an arm to right the poor   
   Through Scotland far and wide;   
   And many a lordly wrong-doer   
   By the headsman's axe had died.   
   'Twas then upspoke Sir Robert Græme,   
   The bold o'ermastering man:—   
   “O King, in the name of your Three Estates   
   I set you under their ban!   
   “For, as your lords made oath to you   
   Of service and fealty,   
   Even in like wise you pledged your oath   
   Their faithful sire to be:—   
   “Yet all we here that are nobly sprung   
   Have mourned dear kith and kin   
   Since first for the Scotish Barons' curse   
   Did your bloody rule begin.”   
   With that he laid his hands on his King:—   
   “Is this not so, my lords?”   
   But of all who had sworn to league with him   
   Not one spake back to his words.   
   Quoth the King:—“Thou speak'st but for one Estate,   
   Nor doth it avow thy gage.   
   Let my liege lords hale this traitor hence!”   
   The Græme fired dark with rage:—   
   “Who works for lesser men than himself,   
   He earns but a witless wage!”   
   But soon from the dungeon where he lay   
   He won by privy plots,   
   And forth he fled with a price on his head   
   To the country of the Wild Scots.   
   And word there came from Sir Robert Græme   
   To the King at Edinbro':—   
   “No Liege of mine thou art; but I see   
   From this day forth alone in thee   
   God's creature, my mortal foe.   
   “Through thee are my wife and children lost,   
   My heritage and lands;   
   And when my God shall show me a way,   
   Thyself my mortal foe will I slay   
   With these my proper hands.”   
   Against the coming of Christmastide   
   That year the King bade call   
   I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth   
   A solemn festival.   
   And we of his household rode with him   
   In a close-ranked company;   
   But not till the sun had sunk from his throne   
   Did we reach the Scotish Sea.   
   That eve was clenched for a boding storm,   
   'Neath a toilsome moon half seen;   
   The cloud stooped low and the surf rose high;   
   And where there was a line of the sky,   
   Wild wings loomed dark between.   
   And on a rock of the black beach-side,   
   By the veiled moon dimly lit,   
   There was something seemed to heave with life   
   As the King drew nigh to it.   
   And was it only the tossing furze   
   Or brake of the waste sea-wold?   
   Or was it an eagle bent to the blast?   
   When near we came, we knew it at last   
   For a woman tattered and old.   
   But it seemed as though by a fire within   
   Her writhen limbs were wrung;   
   And as soon as the King was close to her,   
   She stood up gaunt and strong.   
   'Twas then the moon sailed clear of the rack   
   On high in her hollow dome;   
   And still as aloft with hoary crest   
   Each clamorous wave rang home,   
   Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed   
   Amid the champing foam.   
   And the woman held his eyes with her eyes:—   
   “O King, thou art come at last;   
   But thy wraith has haunted the Scotish Sea   
   To my sight for four years past.   
   “Four years it is since first I met,   
   'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhu,   
   A shape whose feet clung close in a shroud,   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)