Cumbrae, Mirin’s ferry, on St. Andrew’s,
‘Cross where Haakon’s fleet ran the Largs afoul,
Pensively pond’ring with markéd review,
Melancholic meter with penciled scowl.
There, beneath standing slab, her court convened,
The milk thistle, a-flank her thievish weeds,
Made common by her candied nectarine,
By herald finch, titled to landed deeds.
Slips Tyrian robes with even’s increase,
Tumbles Marian’s crown by Ullr’s snow,
With no knighted order to grant her peace,
Elects scribing hands to relieve her woes.
Neither wretch nor weather shalt e’er impugn,
Our blesséd ladyship, the pious’ boon!
G. E. Hernandez