Long Live The King

Once every two or three years the King and Queen would pay a visit to Bristol. When this occurred, the streets were decorated with red, white and blue bunting and flags flying everywhere, especially along the route the Royal Party was to take. The streets were lined with policemen and soldiers with drawn bayonets to keep the crowds from getting too rowdy. Soldiers and sailors would march in their colored uniforms or ride their prancing horses, the sun making their swords glisten. It was a lot of pageantry but all a part of the England I knew and loved. Mother dressed us in our Sunday best and took us down town hours before the time of the parade. We would take our stand where she thought we could see the most. We got very tired and cross, being pushed and jostled by the crowd. But at last they came--first the horse guards with their prancing beautiful horses, a little afraid of the noise of the drums and bands and the shouting, then the grenadier guards with their tall fur hats called buzbies and scarlet coats, then the Welsh Fusaliers, and so on. There was a contingent of every part of the royal army and navy, each with their own colorful uniforms and their own bands. The Lord Mayor of Bristol in his robes of office leads the way. Then an awed hush comes over the crowd as the royal coach comes into view drawn by six beautiful white horses. Then, as it draws near, a cheer goes up from a thousand throats, "Long live the King, hoorah". It is a proud moment. What privilege to be a proud, free Englishman. My mother was always a true Royalist. My father was never disloyal but never cared for all this display.