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The Queen's Last Bow

The lady gives a nervous cough, (About to have her head cut off). The velvet gown is dark as night, Against her skin, so deathly white. She climbed the steps with steady grace, A frozen mask upon her face. The castle walls are cold and grey, To watch a kingdom slip away. She held her beads and whispered low, Of French gardens where the lilies grow. A queen of silver, queen of red, With crowns of thorns upon her head. The crowd is hushed, the axe is keen, To end the life of Scotland’s queen. She forgave the man who held the steel, And knelt before the wooden wheel. "Into thy hands," her spirit cried, As Mary, Queen of Sorrows, died. Though she is gone, the legend stays, In candle smoke and ancient plays. The crown is lost, the blood is dry, Beneath a cold and winter sky. The lady gave a nervous cough, And then the lights were all turned off.