It was not pride-the false, cheap pride the little peolle wear;
It was the gracious elegance that high-born courtiers know.
He had the manners of the French-yet English blood 'was there;
His pace was somewhat ponderous, and beautifully slow.
Beyond us was a sunlit tot.zn-1his was the king's highway.
"And may we give your Majesty a friendly lift" we said.
"I mueh prefer my garden walk. Dear commoners, good day"'
He answered like the king he was-and bowed his kingly
We never saw that royal form in any later ride;
No doubt he loitered far behind, on roadways of his own.
We loved his walk, but even more we loved his simple pride-
In some remote and vanished time he sat upon a throne.
3ut now-oh, happier far his lot!-the freedom of the earth,
And not the petty politics of some declining land
I think of him when spring comes back-this nan of happy birth,
Who walks that road in Acadie, With a scepter in his hand!