A Scot to Jeanne D’Arc
DARK Lily without blame,Not upon us the shame,Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true,They, by the Maiden’s side,Victorious fought and died,One stood by thee that fiery torment through,Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.
Once only didst thou seeIn artist’s imagery,Thine own face painted, and that precious thingWas in an Archer’s handFrom the leal Northern land.Alas, what price would not thy people bringTo win that portrait of the ruinousGulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us!
Born of a lowly line,Noteless as once was thine,One of that name I would were kin to me,Who, in the Scottish GuardWon this for his reward,To fight for France, and memory of thee:Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame.
On France and England bothThe shame of broken troth,Of coward hate and treason black must be;If England slew thee, FranceSent not one word, one lance,One coin to rescue or to ransom thee.And still thy Church unto the Maid deniesThe halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.
But yet thy people callsWithin the rescued wallsOf Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee;What though the Church have chiddenThese orisons forbidden,Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three,With him in Athens that of hemlock died,And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.