Let me sit, as evening falls
In sad and solemn mood,
Among the now deserted halls
Of ancient Holyrood;
And think how human power and pride
Must sink into decay,
Or, like the bubbles on the tide,
Pass, pass away.
No more the joyous crowd resorts
To see the archers good
Draw bow wiihin the ringing courts
Of merry Holyrood.
Ah, where's that high and haughty race
That here so long held sway,
And where the phantoms they would chase?
Passed, passed away.
And where the Monks and Friars grey,
That oft in jovial mood,
Would revel till the break of day
In merry Holyrood?
The flagons deep are emptied out,
The revellers all away;
They come not to renew the bout
Where, where are they?
And where the plaided chieftains bold
That round their monarch stood?
And where the damsels that of old
Made merry Holyrood?
And where that fair ill-fated Queen,
And where the minstrels grey,
That made those vaulted arches ring?
Where, where are they?
Though mouldering are the minstrels bones,
Their thoughts have time withstood
They live in snatches of old songs
Of ancient Holyrood.
For thrones and dynasties depart
And diadems decay,
But these old gushings of the heart
Pass not away.