He sits upon the golden throne,
Robed in ermine-lined velvet. His red cloak
Cascades over the stairs and seems to fill the great hall.
Timidly, you stand at the entrance. He holds out His hand.
"Come, beloved daughter, sit with me."
Then does joy overwhelm!
And you, dear one, who in dispair may have sometimes felt
You were not anyone's anything,
Know at last that you are of the royalist of blood.
You are the Daughter of the King!