 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN
Saw ye the Queen,
Our Queen without peer,
With the wind blowing keen,
And a fog creeping near,
As she came from the land
Of the sun and the vine
To our mist-shrouded strand,
Where the heather and pine
Blend their breath with the smell of the salt sea-brine?
Our Queen without peer,
With the wind blowing keen,
And a fog creeping near,
As she came from the land
Of the sun and the vine
To our mist-shrouded strand,
Where the heather and pine
Blend their breath with the smell of the salt sea-brine?
She passed me close by
As she stepped from the ship,
With a tear in her eye,
And a smile on her lip:—
The smile from a glance
At the crowd on the shore,
But the tear was for France
She might see never more,
And for friends of her youth, and the blithe days of yore.
As she stepped from the ship,
With a tear in her eye,
And a smile on her lip:—
565
At the crowd on the shore,
But the tear was for France
She might see never more,
And for friends of her youth, and the blithe days of yore.
Her nobles stood round,
Each with sword by his side,
Every man of them bound
At her bidding to ride,
And they kissed her fair hand,
And they bent low the knee,
As gallant a band
As you'll any where see,
Grave old Lords of State, and youths courtly and free.
Each with sword by his side,
Every man of them bound
At her bidding to ride,
And they kissed her fair hand,
And they bent low the knee,
As gallant a band
As you'll any where see,
Grave old Lords of State, and youths courtly and free.
Lord and Lady had come,
Merchant, peasant, and clerk,
To welcome her home,
And her bearing to mark;
Some raised a great shout,
Some sang a glad song,
Some wandered about,
Shaking hands with the throng,
And wept as they prayed that her days might be long.
Merchant, peasant, and clerk,
To welcome her home,
And her bearing to mark;
Some raised a great shout,
Some sang a glad song,
Some wandered about,
Shaking hands with the throng,
And wept as they prayed that her days might be long.
She is fair as a rose
Full-blossomed in June,
And her step as she goes
Has the swing of a tune,
There's a glint in her eye
Hints of good-humoured mirth,
And she holds her head high
As befits her high birth,
Sole heir of a line that held long sway on earth.
Full-blossomed in June,
And her step as she goes
Has the swing of a tune,
There's a glint in her eye
Hints of good-humoured mirth,
And she holds her head high
As befits her high birth,
Sole heir of a line that held long sway on earth.
There is pride in her port,
Though so sprightly and young,
And the ready retort
Will not fail on her tongue,
She is learned and fit
To make laws for our crimes,
Yet may show more of wit
Than discretion at times,
But her heart it is sweet as the bloom on the limes.
Though so sprightly and young,
And the ready retort
Will not fail on her tongue,
She is learned and fit
To make laws for our crimes,
Yet may show more of wit
Than discretion at times,
But her heart it is sweet as the bloom on the limes.
She knows her own mind,
And will have her own way,
Which, if passion should blind,
May bring trouble some day;
And I thought I could trace
The dark shade of a cloud
Passing over her face,
When the ministers bowed,
And read out their well-pondered greetings aloud.
And will have her own way,
Which, if passion should blind,
May bring trouble some day;
And I thought I could trace
The dark shade of a cloud
Passing over her face,
When the ministers bowed,
And read out their well-pondered greetings aloud.
Every head was laid bare,
Every heart loudly beat,
Many kneeling down there,
Kissed the ground at her feet,
Had she trod on their ranks,
As she passed, there had been
But a murmur of thanks
For the honour, I ween,
And a God bless thee, Lady, God save the Queen.
Every heart loudly beat,
Many kneeling down there,
Kissed the ground at her feet,
Had she trod on their ranks,
As she passed, there had been
But a murmur of thanks
For the honour, I ween,
And a God bless thee, Lady, God save the Queen.
France's lilies are fine,
Scotland's thistle is rough,
Yet her crown it can line
With a down soft enough.
Truth is better than wit,
Love is better than gold,
And in these, as is fit,
We our Queen will enfold—
Ah! we wist not that day what the Future did hold!
Scotland's thistle is rough,
Yet her crown it can line
With a down soft enough.
Truth is better than wit,
Love is better than gold,
And in these, as is fit,
We our Queen will enfold—
Ah! we wist not that day what the Future did hold!
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |