O God! what more did I hear or see, Or how should I tell the rest? But there at length our King lay slain With sixteen wounds in his breast. O God! and now did a bell boom forth, And the murderers turned and fled; Too late, too late, O God, did it sound! And I heard the true men mustering round, And the cries and the coming tread. But ere they came, to the black death-gap Somewise did I creep and steal; And lo! or ever I swooned away, Through the dusk I saw where the white face lay In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel. And now, ye Scotish maids who have heard Dread things of the days grown old-- Even at the last, of true Queen Jane May somewhat yet be told, And how she dealt for her dear Lord's sake Dire vengeance manifold. 'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth, In the fair-lit Death-chapelle, That the slain King's corpse on bier was laid With chaunt and requiem-knell. And all with royal wealth of balm Was the body purified; And none could trace on the brow and lips The death that he had died. In his robes of state he lay asleep With orb and sceptre in hand; And by the crown he wore on his throne Was his kingly forehead spann'd. And, girls, 't was a sweet sad thing to see How the curling golden hair, As in the day of the poet's youth, From the King's crown clustered there. And if all had come to pass in the brain That throbbed beneath those curls, Then Scots had said in the days to come That this their soil was a different home And a different Scotland, girls! And the Queen sat by him night and days And oft she knelt in prayer, All wan and pale in the widow's veil That shrouded her shining hair. And I had got good help of my hurt: And only to me some sign She made; and save the priests that were there No face would she see but mine. And the month of March wore on apace; And now fresh couriers fared Still from the country of the Wild Scots With news of the traitors snared. And still, as I told her day by day, Her pallor changed to sight, And the frost grew to a furnace-flame That burnt her visage white. And evermore as I brought her word, She bent to her dead King James, And in the cold ear with fire-drawn breath She spoke the traitors' names. But when the name of Sir Robert Græme Was the one she had to give, I ran to hold her up from the floor; For the froth was on her lips, and sore I feared that she could not live. And the month of March wore nigh to its end, And still was the death-pall spread; For she would not bury her slaughtered lord Till his slayers all were dead.