And kirtle strewn with fleurs-de-lys,
You came a flashing JOAN OF ARC,
Destructive of my bosom's peace.
The sword was girt upon your hip,
And thine the Maid's heroic glance;
I seemed to hear upon your lip,
The watchword of her life, "For France!"
Anon I saw thee as the Queen
Who held so many hearts in fee;
But MARY STUART scarce had been,