| |
| FAIR is Port Royal river | |
| In the Acadian land; | |
| It flows through verdant meadows, | |
| Widespread on either hand; | |
| Through orchards and through cornfields | 5 |
| It gayly holds its way, | |
| And past the ancient ramparts, | |
| Long fallen to decay. | |
| |
| Peace reigns within the valley, | |
| Peace on the mountain side, | 10 |
| In hamlet and in cottage, | |
| And on Port Royal’s tide; | |
| In peace the ruddy farmer | |
| Reaps from its fertile fields; | |
| In peace the fisher gathers | 15 |
| The spoils its basin yields. | |
| |
| Yet this sweet vale has echoed | |
| To many a warlike note; | |
| The strife-compelling bugle, | |
| The cannon’s iron throat, | 20 |
| The wall-piece, and the musket | |
| Have joined in chorus there, | |
| To fill with horrid clangor | |
| The balmy morning air. | |
| |
| And many a gallant war-fleet | 25 |
| Has, in the days gone by, | |
| Lain in that noble basin, | |
| And flouted in the sky | |
| A flag with haughty challenge | |
| To the now ruined hold, | 30 |
| Which reared its lofty ramparts | |
| In warlike days of old. | |
| |
| And in the early springtime, | |
| When farmers plough their fields, | |
| Full many a warlike weapon | 35 |
| The peaceful furrow yields; | |
| The balls of mighty cannon | |
| Crop from the fruitful soil, | |
| And many a rusted sword-blade, | |
| Once red with martial toil. | 40 |
| |
| Three hundred years save thirty | |
| Have been and passed away | |
| Since bold Champlain was wafted | |
| To fair Port Royal Bay; | |
| And there he built a fortress, | 45 |
| With palisadoes tall, | |
| Well flanked by many a bastion, | |
| To guard its outward wall. | |
| |
| Here was the germ of Empire, | |
| The cradle of a state, | 50 |
| In future ages destined | |
| To stand among the great; | |
| Then hail to old Port Royal! | |
| Although her ramparts fall, | |
| Canadian towns shall greet her, | 55 |
| The mother of them all. * * * * * | |
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