Through The Mist.

The sound of the oars was dreadful, God's slave She was, yet helpless before God and men, And she knew, as they rowed her to the grave, She would never hear sound of rowing again. Though the lady was Queen she shook inside, But how great was her fear no-one would know, Because, into the mist, on this last ride, As brave Mary of Scotland she must go. So young to her death and much unprepared. The Tower had been her home for past years. Despite her pleas to the Queen with red hair, She was condemned and there must be no tears. I often remember, as taught at school, Goodly Queen Bess cried in cousinly grief When she signed the Warrant with stately rule That usurping her throne would end in defeat. She reminded Pretenders to this, her shore, Before claiming reign, not to think like fools. Some had aimed and missed, as this girl before When mist took her to kneel at the axe's stool.