It wasna from a golden throne,
Or a bower with milk-white roses blown,
But ’mid the kelp on northern sand
That I got a kiss of the King’s hand.
I durstna raise my een to see
If he even cared to glance at me;
His princely brow with care was crossed,
For his true men slain and kingdom lost.
Think not his hand was soft and white
Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight,
Or round his wrists were ruffles grand,
When I got a kiss of the King’s hand.
But dearer far to my twa een
Was the ragged sleeve of red and green
Owre that young weary hand that fain
With the guid broadsword had found its ain.
Farewell for ever! the distance grey
And the lapping ocean seemed to say—
For him a home in a foreign land,
And for me one kiss of the King’s hand.
Sarah Robertson Matheson.
