Classic Poem

Here let me sit, as ev'ning falls,
In sad and solemn mood,
Among the now deserted halls
Of ancient Holyrood;
To think how human pow'r 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 within 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?
Pass'd, pass'd 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 revelers 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?

Tho' mould'ring 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.