(Andrew Lang)

A Scot to Jeanne DArc

DARK Lily without blame, 
  Not upon us the shame, 
Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true; 
  They, by the Maidens 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 see, 
  In artists imagery,
Thine own face painted, and that precious thing 
  Was in an Archers hand 
  From the leal Northern land.

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