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Title: Songs Of The Road

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Release date: June 8, 2007 [eBook #21769]

Most recently updated: January 20, 2022

Language: English

Credits: David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE ROAD ***

SONGS OF THE ROAD

BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

CONTENTS

I. — NARRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS

SONGS OF THE ROAD

A HYMN OF EMPIRE

SIR NIGEL'S SONG

THE ARAB STEED

A POST-IMPRESSIONIST

EMPIRE BUILDERS

THE GROOM'S ENCORE

THE BAY HORSE

THE OUTCASTS

THE END

1902-1909

THE WANDERER

BENDY'S SERMON

II. — PHILOSOPHIC VERSES

COMPENSATION

THE BANNER OF PROGRESS

HOPE

RELIGIO MEDICI

MAN'S LIMITATION

MIND AND MATTER

DARKNESS

III — MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

A WOMAN'S LOVE

BY THE NORTH SEA

DECEMBER'S SNOW

SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION

THE EMPIRE

A VOYAGE

THE ORPHANAGE

SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR

NIGHT VOICES

THE MESSAGE

THE ECHO

ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR

A LILT OF THE ROAD

SONGS OF THE ROAD

By Arthur Conan Doyle

Garden City New York

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1911

J. C. D.

THIS-AND-ALL

February, 1911

FOREWORD

If it were not for the hillocks

You'd think little of the hills;

The rivers would seem tiny

If it were not for the rills.

If you never saw the brushwood

You would under-rate the trees;

And so you see the purpose

Of such little rhymes as these.

Crowborough

1911

I. — NARRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS

SONGS OF THE ROAD

A HYMN OF EMPIRE

(Coronation Year, 1911)

God save England, blessed by Fate,

So old, yet ever young:

The acorn isle from which the great

Imperial oak has sprung!

And God guard Scotland's kindly soil,

The land of stream and glen,

The granite mother that has bred

A breed of granite men!

God save Wales, from Snowdon's vales

To Severn's silver strand!

For all the grace of that old race

Still haunts the Celtic land.

And, dear old Ireland, God  save you,

And heal the wounds of old,

For every grief you ever knew

May  joy   come  fifty-fold!

Set Thy guard over us,

May Thy shield cover us,

Enfold and uphold us

On land and on sea!

From the palm to the pine,

From the snow to the line,

Brothers together

And children of Thee.

Thy blessing, Lord, on Canada,

Young giant of the West,

Still upward lay her broadening way,

And may her feet be blessed!

And Africa, whose hero breeds

Are blending into one,

Grant that she tread the path which leads

To holy unison.

May God protect Australia,

Set in her Southern Sea!

Though far thou art, it cannot part

Thy brother folks from thee.

And you, the Land of Maori,

The island-sisters fair,

Ocean hemmed and lake be-gemmed,

God hold you in His care!

Set Thy guard over us,

May Thy shield cover us,

Enfold and uphold us

On land and on sea!

From the palm to the pine,

From the snow to the line,

Brothers together

And children of Thee.

God guard our Indian brothers,

The Children of the Sun,

Guide us and walk beside us,

Until Thy will be done.

To all be equal measure,

Whate'er his blood or birth,

Till we shall build as Thou hast willed

O'er all Thy fruitful Earth.

May we maintain the story

Of honest, fearless right!

Not ours, not ours the Glory!

What are we in Thy sight?

Thy servants, and no other,

Thy servants may we be,

To help our weaker brother,

As we crave for help from Thee!

Set Thy guard over us,

May Thy shield cover us,

Enfold and uphold us

On land and on sea!

From the palm to the pine,

From the snow to the line,

Brothers together

And children of Thee.

SIR NIGEL'S SONG

A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword!

For the world is all to win.

Though the way be hard and the door be

barred,

The strong man enters in.

If Chance or Fate still hold the gate,

Give me the iron key,

And turret high, my plume shall fly,

Or you may weep for me!

A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse,

To bear me out afar,

Where blackest need and grimmest deed,

And sweetest perils are.

Hold thou my ways from glutted days,

Where poisoned leisure lies,

And point the path of tears and wrath

Which mounts to high emprise.

A heart! A heart! Ah, give me a heart,

To rise to circumstance!

Serene and high, and bold to try

The hazard of a chance.

With strength to wait, but fixed as fate,

To plan and dare and do;

The peer of all — and only thrall,

Sweet lady mine, to you!

THE ARAB STEED

I gave the 'orse 'is evenin' feed,

And bedded of 'im down,

And went to 'ear the sing-song

In the bar-room of the Crown,

And one young feller spoke a piece

As told a kind of tale,

About an Arab man wot 'ad

A certain 'orse for sale.

I 'ave no grudge against the man —

I never 'eard 'is name,

But if he was my closest pal

I'd say the very same,

For wot you do in other things

Is neither 'ere nor there,

But w'en it comes to 'orses

You must keep upon the square.

Now I'm tellin' you the story

Just as it was told last night,

And if I wrong this Arab man

Then 'e can set me right;

But s'posin' all these fac's are fac's,

Then I make bold to say

That I think it was not sportsmanlike

To act in sich a way.

For, as I understand the thing,

'E went to sell this steed —

Which is a name they give a 'orse

Of some outlandish breed —,

And soon 'e found a customer,

A proper sportin' gent,

Who planked 'is money down at once

Without no argument.

Now when the deal was finished

And the money paid, you'd think

This Arab would 'ave asked the gent

At once to name 'is drink,

Or at least 'ave thanked 'im kindly,

An' wished 'im a good day,

And own as 'e'd been treated

In a very 'andsome way.

But instead o' this 'e started

A-talkin' to the steed,

And speakin' of its "braided mane"

An' of its "winged speed,"

And other sich expressions

With which I can't agree,

For a 'orse with wings an' braids an' things

Is not the 'orse for me.

The moment that 'e 'ad the cash —

Or wot 'e called the gold,

'E turned as nasty as could be:

Says 'e, "You're sold!   You're sold!"

Them was 'is words; it's not for me

To settle wot he meant;

It may 'ave been the 'orse was sold,

It may 'ave been the gent.

I've not a word to say agin

His fondness for 'is 'orse,

But why should 'e insinivate

The gent would treat 'im worse?

An' why should 'e go talkin'

In that aggravatin' way,

As if the gent would gallop 'im

And wallop 'im all day?

It may 'ave been an' 'arness 'orse,

It may 'ave been an 'ack,

But a bargain is a bargain,

An' there ain't no goin' back;

For when you've picked the money up,

That finishes the deal,

And after that your mouth is shut,

Wotever you may feel.

Supposin' this 'ere Arab man

'Ad wanted to be free,

'E could 'ave done it businesslike,

The same as you or me;

A fiver might 'ave squared the gent,

An' then 'e could 'ave claimed

As 'e'd cleared 'imself quite 'andsome,

And no call to be ashamed.

But instead 'o that this Arab man

Went on from bad to worse,

An' took an' chucked the money

At the cove wot bought the 'orse;

'E'd 'ave learned 'im better manners,

If 'e'd waited there a bit,

But 'e scooted on 'is bloomin' steed

As 'ard as 'e could split.

Per'aps 'e sold 'im after,

Or per'aps 'e 'ires 'im out,

But I'd like to warm that Arab man

Wen next 'e comes about;

For wot 'e does in other things

Is neither 'ere nor there,

But w'en it comes to 'orses

We must keep 'im on the square.

A POST-IMPRESSIONIST

Peter Wilson, A.R.A.,

In his small atelier,

Studied Continental Schools,

Drew by Academic rules.

So he made his bid for fame,

But no golden answer came,

For the fashion of his day

Chanced to set the other way,

And decadent forms of Art

Drew the patrons of the mart.

Now this poor reward of merit

Rankled so in Peter's spirit,

It was more than he could bear;

So one night in mad despair

He took his canvas for the year

("Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier"),

And he hurled it from his sight,

Hurled it blindly to the night,

Saw it fall diminuendo

From the open lattice window,

Till it landed with a flop

On the dust-bin's ashen top,

Where, 'mid damp and rain and grime,

It remained till morning time.

Then when morning brought reflection,

He was shamed at his dejection,

And he thought with consternation

Of his poor, ill-used creation;

Down he rushed, and found it there

Lying all exposed and bare,

Mud-bespattered, spoiled, and botched,

Water sodden, fungus-blotched,

All the outlines blurred and wavy,

All the colours turned to gravy,

Fluids of a dappled hue,

Blues on red and reds on blue,

A pea-green mother with her daughter,

Crazy boats on crazy water

Steering out to who knows what,

An island or a lobster-pot?

Oh, the wretched man's despair!

Was it lost beyond repair?

Swift he bore it from below,

Hastened to the studio,

Where with anxious eyes he studied

If the ruin, blotched and muddied,

Could by any human skill

Be made a normal picture still.

Thus in most repentant mood

Unhappy Peter Wilson stood,

When, with pompous face, self-centred,

Willoughby the critic entered —

He of whom it has been said

He lives a century ahead —

And sees with his prophetic eye

The forms which Time will justify,

A fact which surely must abate

All longing to reincarnate.

"Ah, Wilson," said the famous man,

Turning himself the walls to scan,

"The same old style of thing I trace,

Workmanlike but commonplace.

Believe me, sir, the work that lives

Must furnish more than Nature gives.

'The light that never was,' you know,

That is your mark — but here,   hullo!

What's this? What's this? Magnificent!

I've wronged you, Wilson! I repent!

A masterpiece! A perfect thing!

What atmosphere! What colouring!

Spanish Armada, is it not?

A view of Ryde, no matter what,

I pledge my critical renown

That this will be the talk of Town.

Where did you get those daring hues,

Those blues on reds, those reds on

blues?

That pea-green face, that gamboge sky?

You've far outcried the latest cry—

Out Monet-ed Monet.   I have said

Our Art was sleeping, but not dead.

Long have we waited for the Star,

I watched the skies for it afar,

The hour has come—and here you are."

And that is how our artist friend

Found his struggles at an end,

And from his little Chelsea flat

Became the Park Lane plutocrat.

'Neath his sheltered garden wall

When the rain begins to fall,

And the stormy winds do blow,

You may see them in a row,

Red effects and lake and yellow

Getting nicely blurred and mellow.

With the subtle gauzy mist

Of the great Impressionist.

Ask him how he chanced to find

How to leave the French behind,

And he answers quick and smart,

"English climate's best for Art."

EMPIRE BUILDERS

Captain Temple, D.S.O.,

With his banjo and retriever.

"Rough, I know, on poor old Flo,

But, by Jove! I couldn't leave her."

Niger ribbon on his breast,

In his blood the Niger fever,

Captain Temple, D.S.O.,

With his banjo and retriever.

Cox of the Politicals,

With his cigarette and glasses,

Skilled in Pushtoo gutturals,

Odd-job man among the Passes,

Keeper of the Zakka Khels,

Tutor of the Khaiber Ghazis,

Cox of the Politicals,

With his cigarette and glasses.

Mr. Hawkins, Junior Sub.,

Late of Woolwich and Thames Ditton,

Thinks his battery the hub

Of the whole wide orb of Britain.

Half a hero, half a cub,

Lithe and playful as a kitten,

Mr. Hawkins, Junior Sub.,

Late of Woolwich and Thames Ditton.

Eighty Tommies, big and small,

Grumbling hard as is their habit.

"Say, mate, what's a Bunerwal?"

"Sometime like a bloomin' rabbit."

"Got to hoof it to Chitral!"

"Blarst ye, did ye think to cab it!"

Eighty Tommies, big and small,

Grumbling hard as is their habit.

Swarthy Goorkhas, short and stout,

Merry children, laughing, crowing,

Don't know what it's all about,

Don't know any use in knowing;

Only know they mean to go

Where the Sirdar thinks of going.

Little Goorkhas, brown and stout,

Merry children, laughing, crowing.

Funjaub Rifles, fit and trim,

Curly whiskered sons of battle,

Very dignified and prim

Till they hear the Jezails rattle;

Cattle thieves of yesterday,

Now the wardens of the cattle,

Fighting Brahmins of Lahore,

Curly whiskered sons of battle.

Up the winding mountain path

See the long-drawn column go;

Himalayan aftermath

Lying rosy on the snow.

Motley ministers of wrath

Building better than they know,

In the rosy aftermath

Trailing upward to the snow.

THE GROOM'S ENCORE

(Being a Sequel to "The Groom's Story" in "Songs of Action")

Not tired of 'earin' stories! You're a nailer,

so you are!

I thought I should 'ave choked you off with

that 'ere motor-car.

Well, mister, 'ere's another; and, mind you,

it's a fact,

Though you'll think perhaps I copped it

out o' some blue ribbon tract.

It was in the days when farmer men were

jolly-faced and stout,

For all the cash was comin' in and little

goin' out,

But now, you see, the farmer men are

'ungry-faced and thin,

For all the cash is goin' out and little

comin' in.

But in the days I'm speakin' of, before

the drop in wheat,

The life them farmers led was such as

couldn't well be beat;

They went the pace amazin', they 'unted

and they shot,

And this 'ere Jeremiah Brown the liveliest

of the lot.

'E was a fine young fellar; the best roun'

'ere by far,

But just a bit full-blooded, as fine young

fellars are;

Which I know they didn't ought to, an' it's

very wrong of course,

But the colt wot never capers makes a

mighty useless 'orse.

The lad was never vicious, but 'e made the

money go,

For 'e was ready with 'is "yes," and back-

ward with 'is "no."

And so 'e turned to drink which is the

avenoo to 'ell,

An' 'ow 'e came to stop 'imself is wot' I

'ave to tell.

Four days on end 'e never knew 'ow 'e 'ad

got to bed,

Until one mornin' fifty clocks was tickin'

in 'is 'ead,

And on the same the doctor came, "You're

very near D.T.,

If you don't stop yourself, young chap,

you'll pay the price," said 'e.

"It takes the form of visions, as I fear

you'll quickly know;

Perhaps a string o' monkeys, all a-sittin' in

a row,

Perhaps it's frogs or beetles, perhaps it's

rats or mice,

There  are  many  sorts   of visions and

there's none of 'em is nice."

But Brown 'e started laughin': "No

doctor's muck," says 'e,

"A take-'em-break-'em gallop is the only

cure for me!

They 'unt to-day down 'Orsham way.

Bring round the sorrel mare,

If them monkeys come inquirin' you can

send 'em on down there."

Well, Jeremiah rode to 'ounds, exactly as

'e said.

But all the time the doctor's words were

ringin' in 'is 'ead —

"If you don't stop yourself, young chap,

you've got to pay the price,

There are many sorts of visions, but none

of 'em is nice."

They found that day at Leonards Lee and

ran to Shipley Wood,

'Ell-for-leather all  the way, with scent

and weather good.

Never a check to 'Orton Beck and on

across the Weald,

And all the way the Sussex clay was weed-

in' out the field.

There's not a man among them could

remember such a run,

Straight as a rule to Bramber Pool and on

by Annington,

They followed   still  past  Breeding   'ill

and on by Steyning Town,

Until they'd cleared the 'edges and were

out upon the Down.

Full thirty mile from Plimmers Style,

without a check or fault,

Full thirty mile the 'ounds 'ad run and

never called a 'alt.

One by one the Field was done until at

Finden Down,

There was no one with the 'untsman save

young Jeremiah Brown.

And then the 'untsman 'e was beat. 'Is

'orse 'ad tripped and fell.

"By George," said Brown, "I'll go alone,

and follow it to — well,

The place that it belongs to."   And as 'e

made the vow,

There broke from right in front of 'im

the queerest kind of row.

There lay a copse of 'azels on the border

of the track,

And into this two 'ounds 'ad run — them

two was all the pack —

And now from these 'ere 'azels there came

a fearsome 'owl,

With a yappin' and a snappin' and a

wicked  snarlin' growl.

Jeremiah's blood ran cold — a frightened

man was 'e,

But he butted through the bushes just

to see what 'e could see,

And there beneath their shadow, blood

drippin' from his jaws,

Was an awful creature standin' with  a

'ound beneath its paws.

A fox?   Five  foxes  rolled  in  one — a

pony's weight and size,

A rampin', ragin' devil, all  fangs and

'air and eyes;

Too scared to speak, with shriek on shriek,

Brown galloped from the sight

With just one thought within 'is mind —

"The doctor told me right."

That evenin' late the minister was seated

in his study,

When in there rushed a 'untin' man, all

travel-stained and muddy,

"Give me the Testament!" he cried, "And

'ear my sacred vow,

That not one drop of drink shall ever pass

my lips from now."

'E swore it and 'e kept it and 'e keeps it to

this day,

'E 'as turned from gin to ginger and says 'e

finds it pay,

You can search the whole o' Sussex from

'ere to Brighton Town,

And you wouldn't find a better man than

Jeremiah Brown.

And the vision — it was just a wolf, a big

Siberian,

A great, fierce, 'ungry devil from a show-

man's caravan,

But it saved 'im from perdition — and I

don't mind if I do,

I 'aven't seen no wolf myself — so 'ere's

my best to you!

THE BAY HORSE

Squire wants the bay horse,

For it is the best.

Squire holds the mortgage;

Where's the interest?

Haven't got the interest,

Can't raise a sou;

Shan't sell the bay horse,

Whatever he may do.

Did you see the bay horse?

Such a one to go!

He took a bit of ridin',

When I showed him at the Show.

First prize the broad jump,

First prize the high;

Gold medal, Class A,

You'll see it by-and-by.

I bred the bay horse

On the Withy Farm.

I broke the bay horse,

He broke my arm.

Don't blame the bay horse,

Blame the brittle bone,

I bred him and I've fed him,

And he's all my very own.

Just watch the bay horse

Chock full of sense!

Ain't he just beautiful,

Risin' to a fence!

Just hear the bay horse

Whinin' in his stall,

Purrin' like a pussy cat

When he hears me call.

But if Squire's lawyer

Serves me with his writ,

I'll take the bay horse

To Marley gravel pit.

Over the quarry edge,

I'll sit him tight,

If he wants the brown hide,

He's welcome to the white!

THE OUTCASTS

Three women stood by the river's flood

In the gas-lamp's murky light,

A devil watched them on the left,

And an angel on the right.

The clouds of lead flowed overhead;

The leaden stream below;

They marvelled much, that outcast three,

Why Fate should use them so.

Said one: "I have a mother dear,

Who lieth ill abed,

And by my sin the wage I win

From which she hath her bread."

Said one: "I am an outcast's child,

And such I came on earth.

If me ye blame, for this my shame,

Whom blame ye for my birth?"

The third she sank a sin-blotched face,

And prayed that she might rest,

In the weary flow of the stream below,

As on her mother's breast.

Now past there came a godly man,

Of goodly stock and blood,

And as he passed one frown he cast

At that sad sisterhood.

Sorely it grieved that godly man,

To see so foul a sight,

He turned his face, and strode apace,

And left them to the night.

But the angel drew her sisters three,

Within her pinions' span,

And the crouching devil slunk away

To join the godly man.

THE END

"Tell me what to get and I will get

it."

"Then get that picture — that — the

girl in white."

"Now tell me where you wish that I should

set it."

"Lean it where I can see it — in the

light."

"If there is more, sir, you have but to say

it."

"Then bring   those  letters — those

which lie apart."

"Here is the packet! Tell me where to

lay it."

"Stoop over, nurse, and lay it on

my heart."

"Thanks for  your  silence,  nurse! You

understand me!

And now  I'll   try  to  manage  for

myself.

But, as you go, I'll trouble you to hand

me

The small blue bottle there upon the

shelf.

"And so farewell! I feel that I am

keeping

The sunlight from you; may your

walk be bright!

When you return I may perchance be

sleeping,

So, ere you go, one hand-clasp

and good night!"

1902-1909

They recruited William Evans

From the ploughtail and the spade;

Ten years' service in the Devons

Left him smart as they are made.

Thirty or a trifle older,

Rather over six foot high,

Trim of waist and broad of shoulder,

Yellow-haired and blue of eye;

Short of speech and very solid,

Fixed in purpose as a rock,

Slow, deliberate, and stolid,

Of the real West-country stock.

He had never been to college,

Got his teaching in the corps,

You can pick up useful knowledge

'Twixt  Saltash and  Singapore.

Old Field-Cornet Piet van Celling

Lived just northward of the Vaal,

And he called his white-washed dwelling,

Blesbock Farm, Rhenoster Kraal.

In his politics unbending,

Stern of speech and grim of face,

He pursued the never-ending

Quarrel with the English race.

Grizzled hair and face of copper,

Hard as nails from work and sport,

Just the model of a Dopper

Of the fierce old fighting sort.

With a shaggy bearded quota

On commando at his order,

He went off with Louis Botha

Trekking for the British border.

When Natal was first invaded

He was fighting night and day,

Then he scouted and he raided,

With De Wet and Delaney.

Till he had a brush with Plumer,

Got a bullet in his arm,

And returned in sullen humour

To the shelter of his farm.

Now it happened that the Devons,

Moving up in that direction,

Sent their Colour-Sergeant Evans

Foraging with half a section.

By a friendly Dutchman guided,

A Van Eloff or De Vilier,

They were promptly trapped and hided,

In a manner too familiar.

When the sudden scrap was ended,

And they sorted out the bag,

Sergeant Evans lay extended

Mauseritis in his leg.

So the Kaffirs bore him, cursing,

From the scene of his disaster,

And they left him to the nursing

Of the daughters of their master.

Now the second daughter, Sadie —

But the subject why pursue?

Wounded youth and tender lady,

Ancient tale but ever new.

On the stoep they spent the gloaming,

Watched the shadows on the veldt,

Or she led her cripple roaming

To the eucalyptus belt.

He would lie and play with Jacko,

The baboon from Bushman's Kraal,

Smoked Magaliesberg tobacco

While she lisped to him in Taal.

Till he felt that he had rather

He had died amid the slaughter,

If the harshness of the father

Were not softened in the daughter.

So he asked an English question,

And she answered him in Dutch,

But her smile was a suggestion,

And he treated it as such.

Now among Rhenoster kopjes

Somewhat northward of the Vaal,

You may see four little chappies,

Three can walk and one can crawl.

And the blue of Transvaal heavens

Is reflected in their eyes,

Each a little William Evans,

Smaller model — pocket size.

Each a little Burgher Piet

Of the hardy Boer race,

Two great peoples seem to meet

In the tiny sunburned face.

And they often greatly wonder

Why old granddad and Papa,

Should have been so far asunder,

Till united by mamma.

And when asked, "Are you a Boer.

Or a little Englishman?"

Each will answer, short and sure,

"I am a South African."

But the father answers, chaffing,

"Africans but British too."

And the children echo, laughing,

"Half of mother — half of you."

It may seem a crude example,

In an isolated case,

But the story is a sample

Of the welding of the race.

So from bloodshed and from sorrow,

From the pains of yesterday,

Comes the nation of to-morrow

Broadly based and built to stay.

Loyal spirits strong in union,

Joined by kindred faith and blood;

Brothers in the wide communion

Of our sea-girt brotherhood.

THE WANDERER {1}

1 With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.

'Twas in the shadowy gloaming

Of a cold and wet March day,

That a wanderer came roaming

From countries far away.

Scant raiment had he round him,

Nor purse, nor worldly gear,

Hungry and faint we found him,

And bade him welcome here.

His weary frame bent double,

His eyes were old and dim,

His face was writhed with trouble

Which none might share with him.

His speech was strange and broken,

And none could understand,

Such words as might be spoken

In some far distant land.

We guessed not whence he hailed from,

Nor knew what far-off quay

His roving bark had sailed from

Before he came to me.

But there he was, so slender,

So helpless and so pale,

That my wife's heart grew tender

For one who seemed so frail.

She cried, "But you must bide here!

You shall no further roam.

Grow stronger by our side here,

Within our moorland home!"

She laid her best before him,

Homely and simple fare,

And to his couch she bore him

The raiment he should wear.

To mine he had been welcome,

My suit of russet brown,

But she had dressed our weary guest

In a loose and easy gown.

And long in peace he lay there,

Brooding and still and weak,

Smiling from day to day there

At thoughts he would not speak.

The months flowed on, but ever

Our guest would still remain,

Nor made the least endeavour

To leave our home again.

He heeded not for grammar,

Nor did we care to teach,

But soon he learned to stammer

Some words of English speech.

With these our guest would tell us

The things that he liked best,

And order and compel us

To follow his behest.

He ruled us without malice,

But as if he owned us all,

A sultan in his palace

With his servants at his call.

Those calls came fast and faster,

Our service still we gave,

Till I who had been master

Had grown to be his slave.

He claimed with grasping gestures

Each thing of price he saw,

Watches and rings and vestures,

His will the only law.

In vain had I commanded,

In vain I struggled still,

Servants and wife were banded

To do the stranger's will.

And then in deep dejection

It came to me one day,

That my own wife's affection

Had been beguiled away.

Our love had known no danger,

So certain had it been!

And now to think a stranger

Should dare to step between.

I saw him lie and harken

To the little songs she sung,

And when the shadows darken

I could hear his lisping tongue.

They would sit in chambers shady,

When the light was growing dim,

Ah, my fickle-hearted lady!

With your arm embracing him.

So, at last, lest he divide us,

I would put them to the test.

There was no one there beside us,

Save  this  interloping  guest.

So I took my stand before them,

Very silent and erect,

My accusing glance passed o'er them,

Though with no observed effect.

But the lamp light shone upon her,

And I saw each tell-tale feature,

As I cried, "Now, on your honour,

Do or don't you love the creature?"

But her answer seemed evasive,

It was "Ducky-doodle-doo!

If his mummy loves um babby,

Doesn't daddums love um too?"

BENDY'S SERMON

[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]

You didn't know of Bendigo!   Well, that

knocks me out!

Who's your board school teacher?   What's

he been about?

Chock-a-block with fairy-tales — full of

useless cram,

And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of

Nottingham!

Bendy's short for Bendigo.   You should

see him peel!

Half of him was whalebone, half of him

was steel,

Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine

in height,

Always ready to  oblige if you  want a

fight.

I could talk of Bendigo from here to king-

dom come,

I guess before I ended you would wish your

dad was dumb.

I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and

how the deaf 'un fell,

But the game is done, and the men are

gone — and maybe it's as well.

Bendy he turned Methodist—he said he

felt a call,

He stumped the country preachin' and you

bet he filled the hall,

If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin'

like a lamb,

You'd   never know   bold   Bendigo,   the

pride of Nottingham.

His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a

waiter's coat,

With a hallelujah collar and a choker round

his throat,

His pals would laugh and say in chaff that

Bendigo was right,

In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one

else to fight.

But he was very earnest, improvin' day by

day,

A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty

lay,

But the devil he was waitin', and in the

final bout,

He hit him hard below his guard and

knocked poor Bendy out.

Now I'll tell you how it happened. He

was preachin' down at Brum,

He was billed just like a circus, you should

see the people come,

The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore-

most row,

There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a

grudge at Bendigo.

There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford,

Solly Jones of Perry Bar,

Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the

same wot drew with Carr,

Jack Ball the fightin  gunsmith, Joe Mur-

phy from the Mews,

And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the

Champion of the Jews.

A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a

string,

Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any-

thing,

Sittin' in a string there, right under

Bendy's nose,

If his message was for sinners, he could

make a start on those.

Soon he heard them chaflin'; "Hi, Bendy!

Here's a go!"

"How much are you coppin' by this Jump

to Glory show?"

"Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring!  Mighty

spry of you!

Didn't  everybody know  the  ring  was

leavin' you."

Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above

and prayed,

"Look down, O Lord, and grip me with

a strangle hold!" he said.

"Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop

on me!

I'm slippin', Lord, I'm slippin' and I'm

clingin' hard to Thee!"

But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and

the uproar it was such

That the preacher in the pulpit might be

talkin' double Dutch,

Till a workin' man he shouted out, a-

jumpin' to his feet,

"Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave

'em in the street."

Then  Bendy  said, "Good  Lord, since

first I left my sinful ways,

Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've

given up my days,

But now, dear Lord"—and here he laid his

Bible on the shelf—

"I'll take, with your permission, just five

minutes for myself."

He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger

from a den,

They say it was a lovely sight to see him

floor his men;

Right and left, and left and right, straight

and true and hard,

Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like

a knacker's yard.

Platt was standin' on his back and lookup

at his toes,

Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for

his nose,

Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he

could do

Rakin' for his ivories that lay about the

pew.

Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith was in a

peaceful sleep,

Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up

in a heap,

Five of them was twisted in a tangle on

the floor,

And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, had

sprinted for the door.

Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a

row,

Listenin' to words of grace from Mister

Bendigo,

Listenin' to his reverence — all as good

as gold,

Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the

fold.

So that's the way that Bendy ran his

mission in the slum,

And preached the Holy Gospel to the

fightin' men of Brum,

"The Lord," said he, "has given me His

message from on high,

And if  you interrupt Him, I will know

the reason why."

But to think of all your schooling clean

wasted, thrown away,

Darned if I can make out what you're

learnin' all the day,

Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with

cram,

And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride

of Nottingham.

II. — PHILOSOPHIC VERSES

COMPENSATION

The grime is on the window pane,

Pale the London sunbeams fall,

And show the smudge of mildew stain,

Which lies on the distempered wall.

I am a cripple, as you see,

And here I lie, a broken thing,

But God has given flight to me,

That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.

For if I will to see or hear,

Quick as the thought my spirit flies,

And lo! the picture flashes clear,

Through all the mist of centuries.

I can recall the Tigris' strand,

Where once the Turk and Tartar met,

When the great Lord of Samarcand

Struck down the Sultan Bajazet.

Under a ten-league swirl of dust

The roaring battle swings and sways,

Now reeling down, now upward thrust,

The crescent sparkles through  the

haze.

I see the Janissaries fly,

I see the chain-mailed leader fall,

I hear the Tekbar clear and high,

The true believer's battle-call.

And tossing o'er the press I mark

The horse-tail banner over all,

Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark

That lies on the distempered wall.

And thus the meanest thing I see

Will set a scene within my brain,

And every sound that comes to me,

Will bring strange echoes back again.

Hark now!   In rhythmic monotone,

You hear the murmur of the mart,

The low, deep, unremitting moan,

That  comes  from  weary London's

heart.

But I can change it to the hum

Of multitudinous acclaim,

When triple-walled Byzantium,

Re-echoes the Imperial name.

I hear the beat of armed feet,

The legions clanking on their way,

The long shout rims from street to street,

With rolling drum and trumpet bray.

So I hear it rising, falling,

Till it dies away once more,

And I hear the costers calling

Mid the weary London roar.

Who shall pity then the lameness,

Which still holds me from the ground?

Who commiserate the sameness

Of the scene that girds me round?

Though I lie a broken wreck,

Though I seem to want for all,

Still the world is at my beck

And the ages at my call.

THE BANNER OF PROGRESS

There's a banner in our van,

And we follow as we can,

For at times we scarce can see it,

And at times it flutters high.

But however it be flown,

Still we know it as our own,

And we follow, ever follow,

Where we see the banner fly.

In the struggle and the strife,

In the weariness of life,

The banner-man may stumble,

He may falter in the fight.

But if one should fail or slip,

There are other hands to grip,

And it's forward, ever forward,

From the darkness to the light.

HOPE

Faith may break on reason,

Faith may prove a treason

To that highest gift

That is granted by Thy grace;

But Hope!   Ah, let us cherish

Some spark that may not perish,

Some tiny spark to cheer us,

As we wander through the waste!

A little lamp beside us,

A little lamp to guide us,

Where the path is rocky,

Where the road is steep.

That when the light falls dimmer,

Still some God-sent glimmer

May hold us steadfast ever,

To the track that we should keep.

Hope for the trending of it,

Hope for the ending of it,

Hope for all around us,

That it ripens in the sun.

Hope for what is waning,

Hope for what is gaining,

Hope for what is waiting

When the long day is done.

Hope that He, the nameless,

May still be best and blameless,

Nor ever end His highest

With the earthworm and the slime.

Hope that o'er the border,

There lies a land of order,

With higher law to reconcile

The lower laws of Time.

Hope that every vexed life,

Finds within that next life,

Something that may recompense,

Something that may cheer.

And that perchance the lowest one

Is truly but the slowest one,

Quickened by the sorrow

Which is waiting for him here.

RELIGIO MEDICI

1

God's own best will bide the test,

And God's own worst will fall;

But, best or worst or last or first,

He ordereth it all.

2

For all is good, if understood,

(Ah,   could  we  understand!)

And right and ill are tools of skill

Held in His either hand.

3

The harlot and the anchorite,

The martyr and the rake,

Deftly He fashions each aright,

Its vital part to take.

4

Wisdom He makes to form the fruit

Where the high blossoms be;

And Lust to kill the weaker shoot,

And Drink to trim the tree.

5

And Holiness that so the bole

Be solid at the core;

And Plague and Fever, that the whole

Be changing evermore.

6

He strews the microbes in the lung,

The blood-clot in the brain;

With test and test He picks the best,

Then tests them once again.

7

He tests the body and the mind,

He rings them o'er and o'er;

And if they crack, He throws them back,

And fashions them once more.

8

He chokes the infant throat with slime,

He sets the ferment free;

He builds the tiny tube of lime

That blocks  the artery.

9

He lets the youthful dreamer store

Great projects in his brain,

Until He drops the fungus spore

That smears them out again.

10

He stores the milk that feeds the babe,

He dulls the tortured nerve;

He gives a hundred joys of sense

Where few or none might serve.

11

And still He trains the branch of good

Where the high blossoms be,

And wieldeth still the shears of ill

To prune and prime His tree.

MAN'S LIMITATION

Man says that He is jealous,

Man says that He is wise,

Man says that He is watching

From His throne beyond the skies.

But perchance the arch above us

Is one great mirror's span,

And the Figure seen so dimly

Is a vast reflected man.

If it is love that gave us

A thousand blossoms bright,

Why should that love not save us

From poisoned aconite?

If this man blesses sunshine

Which sets his fields aglow,

Shall that man curse the tempest

That lays his harvest low?

If you may sing His praises

For health He gave to you,

What of this spine-curved cripple,

Shall he sing praises too?

If you may justly thank Him

For strength in mind and limb,

Then what of yonder weakling —

Must he give thanks to Him?

Ah dark, too dark, the riddle!

The tiny brain too small!

We call, and fondly listen,

For answer to that call.

There comes no word to tell us

Why this and that should be,

Why you should live with sorrow,

And joy should live with me.

MIND AND MATTER

Great was his soul and high his aim,

He viewed the world, and he could trace

A lofty plan to leave his name

Immortal  'mid the human race.

But as he planned, and as he worked,

The fungus spore within him lurked.

Though dark the present and the past,

The future seemed a sunlit thing.

Still ever deeper and more vast,

The changes that he hoped to bring.

His was the will to dare and do;

But still the stealthy fungus grew.

Alas the plans that came to nought!

Alas the soul that thrilled in vain!

The sunlit future that he sought

Was but a mirage of the brain.

Where now the wit?   Where now the will?

The fungus is the master still.

DARKNESS

A gentleman of wit and charm,

A kindly heart, a cleanly mind,

One who was quick with hand or purse,

To lift the burden of his kind.

A brain well balanced and mature,

A soul that shrank from all things

base,

So rode he forth that winter day,

Complete in every mortal grace.

And then — the blunder of a horse,

The crash upon the frozen clods,

And — Death?   Ah! no such dignity,

But Life, all twisted and at odds!

At odds in body and in soul,

Degraded to some brutish state,

A being loathsome and malign,

Debased, obscene, degenerate.

Pathology?   The case is clear,

The diagnosis is exact;

A bone depressed, a haemorrhage,

The pressure on a nervous tract.

Theology?   Ah, there's the rub!

Since brain and soul together fade,

Then when the brain is dead — enough!

Lord help us, for we need Thine aid!

III — MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

A WOMAN'S LOVE

I am not blind — I understand;

I see him loyal, good, and wise,

I feel decision in his hand,

I read his honour in his eyes.

Manliest among men is he

With every gift and grace to clothe

him;

He never loved a girl but me —

And I — I loathe him! — loathe him!

The other! Ah! I value him

Precisely at his proper rate,

A creature of caprice and whim,

Unstable, weak, importunate.

His thoughts are set on paltry gain —

You only tell me what I see —

I know him selfish, cold and vain;

But, oh! he's all the world to me!

BY THE NORTH SEA

Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,

We walked where tide and shingle

meet;

The long waves rolled from far away

To purr in ripples at our feet.

And as we walked it seemed to me

That three old friends had met that

day,

The old, old sky, the old, old sea,

And love, which is as old as they.

Out seaward hung the brooding mist

We saw it rolling, fold on fold,

And marked the great Sun alchemist

Turn all its leaden edge to gold,

Look well, look well, oh lady mine,

The gray below, the gold above,

For so the grayest life may shine

All golden in the light of love.

DECEMBER'S SNOW

The bloom is on the May once more,

The chestnut buds have burst anew;

But, darling, all our springs are o'er,

'Tis winter still for me and you.

We plucked Life's blossoms long ago

What's left is but December's snow.

But winter has its joys as fair,

The gentler joys, aloof, apart;

The snow may lie upon our hair

But never, darling, in our heart.

Sweet were the springs of long ago

But sweeter still December's snow.

Yes, long ago, and yet to me

It seems a thing of yesterday;

The shade beneath the willow tree,

The word you looked but feared to say.

Ah! when I learned to love you so

What recked we of December's snow?

But swift the ruthless seasons sped

And swifter still they speed away.

What though they bow the dainty head

And fleck the raven hair with gray?

The boy and girl of long ago

Are laughing through the veil of snow.

SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION

Masters, I sleep not quiet in my grave,

There where they laid me, by the Avon

shore,

In that some crazy wights have set it forth

By arguments most false and fanciful,

Analogy and far-drawn inference,

That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam

(A man whom I remember in old days,

A learned judge with sly adhesive palms,

To which the suitor's gold was wont to

stick) —

That this same Verulam had writ the plays

Which were the fancies of my frolic brain.

What can they urge to dispossess the crown

Which all my comrades and the whole loud

world

Did in my lifetime lay upon my brow?

Look straitly at these arguments and see

How witless and how fondly slight they be.

Imprimis, they have urged that, being

born

In the mean compass of a paltry town,

I could not in my youth have trimmed

my mind

To such an eagle pitch, but must be found,

Like the hedge sparrow, somewhere near

the ground.

Bethink you, sirs, that though I was

denied

The learning which in colleges is found,

Yet may a hungry brain still find its fo

Wherever books may lie or men may be;

And though perchance by Isis or by Cam

The meditative, philosophic plant

May best luxuriate; yet some would say

That in the task of limning mortal life

A fitter preparation might be made

Beside the banks of Thames.   And then

again,

If I be suspect, in that I was not

A fellow of a college, how, I pray,

Will Jonson pass, or Marlowe, or the rest,

Whose measured verse treads with as

proud a gait

As that which was my own? Whence did

they suck

This honey that they stored?   Can you

recite

The vantages which each of these has had

And I had not?   Or is the argument

That my Lord Verulam hath written all,

And covers in his wide-embracing self

The stolen fame of twenty smaller men?

You  prate  about  my  learning.   I

would urge

My want of learning rather as a proof

That I am still myself.   Have I not traced

A seaboard to Bohemia, and made

The cannons roar a whole wide century

Before the first was forged?   Think you,

then,

That he, the ever-learned Verulam,

Would have erred thus?   So may my very

faults

In their gross falseness prove that I am true,

And by that falseness gender truth in you.

And what is left?   They say that they

have found

A script, wherein the writer tells my Lord

He is a secret poet.   True enough!

But surely now that secret is o'er past.

Have you not read his poems?   Know

you not

That in our day a learned chancellor

Might better far dispense unjustest law

Than be suspect of such frivolity

As lies in verse?   Therefore his poetry

Was secret.   Now that he is gone

'Tis so no longer.   You may read his verse,

And judge if mine be better or be worse:

Read  and pronounce!   The  meed  of

praise is thine;

But still let his be his and mine be mine.

I say no more; but how can you for-

swear

Outspoken Jonson, he who knew me well;

So, too, the epitaph which still you read?

Think you they faced my sepulchre with

lies —

Gross lies, so evident and palpable

That every townsman must have wot of it,

And not a worshipper within the church

But must have smiled to see the marbled

fraud?

Surely this touches you?   But if by chance

My reasoning still leaves you obdurate,

I'll lay one final plea.   I pray you look

On my presentment, as it reaches you.

My features shall be sponsors for my fame;

My brow shall speak when Shakespeare's

voice is dumb,

And be his warrant in an age to come.

THE EMPIRE

1902

They said that it had feet of clay,

That its fall was sure and quick.

In the flames of yesterday

All the clay was burned to brick.

When they carved our epitaph

And marked us doomed beyond recall,

"We are," we answered, with a laugh,

"The Empire that declines to fall."

A VOYAGE

1909

Breathing the stale and stuffy air

Of office or consulting room,

Our thoughts will wander back to where

We heard the low Atlantic boom,

And, creaming underneath our screw,

We watched the swirling waters break,

Silver filagrees on blue

Spreading fan-wise in our wake.

Cribbed within the city's fold,

Fettered to our daily round,

We'll conjure up the haze of gold

Which ringed the wide horizon round.

And still we'll break the sordid day

By fleeting visions far and fair,

The silver shield of Vigo Bay,

The long brown cliff of Finisterre.

Where once the Roman galley sped,

Or Moorish corsair spread his sail,

By wooded shore, or sunlit head,

By barren hill or sea-washed vale

We took our way.   But we can swear,

That many countries we have scanned,

But never one that could compare

With our own island mother-land.

The dream is o'er.   No more we view

The shores of Christian or of Turk,

But turning to our tasks anew,

We bend us to our wonted work.

But there will come to you and me

Some glimpse of spacious days gone

by,

The wide, wide stretches of the sea,

The mighty curtain of the sky,

THE ORPHANAGE

When, ere the tangled web is reft,

The  kid-gloved  villain  scowls  and

sneers,

And hapless innocence is left

With no assets save sighs and tears,

'Tis then, just then, that in there stalks

The hero, watchful of her needs;

He talks, Great heavens how he talks!

But we forgive him, for his deeds.

Life is the drama here to-day

And Death the villain of the plot.

It is a realistic play.

Shall it end well or shall it not?

The hero?   Oh, the hero's part

Is vacant — to be played by you.

Then act it well! An orphan's heart

May beat the lighter if you do.

SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR

From our youth to our age

We have passed each stage

In  old immemorial  order,

From primitive days

Through flowery ways

With love like a hedge as their border.

Ah, youth was a kingdom of joy,

And we were the king and the queen,

When I was a year

Short of thirty, my dear,

And you were just nearing nineteen.

But dark follows light

And day follows night

As the old planet circles the sun;

And nature still traces

Her score on our faces

And tallies the years as they run.

Have they chilled the old warmth in your

heart?

I swear that they have not in mine,

Though I am a year

Short of sixty, my dear,

And you are — well, say thirty-nine.

NIGHT VOICES

Father, father, who is that a-whispering?

Who is it who whispers in the wood?

You say it is the breeze

As it sighs among the trees,

But there's some one who whispers in the

wood.

Father, father, who is that a-murmuring?

Who is it who murmurs in the night?

You say it is the roar

Of the wave upon the shore,

But there's some one who murmurs in the

night.

Father, father, who is that who laughs

at us?

Who is it who chuckles in the glen?

Oh, father, let us go,

For the light is burning low,

And there's somebody laughing in the

glen.

Father, father, tell me what you're waiting

for,

Tell me why your eyes are on the

door.

It is dark and it is late,

But you sit so still and straight,

Ever staring, ever smiling, at the door.

THE MESSAGE

(From Heine)

Up, dear laddie, saddle quick,

And spring upon the leather!

Away post haste o'er fell and waste

With whip and spur together!

And when you win to Duncan's kin

Draw one of them aside

And shortly say, "Which daughter may

We welcome as the bride?"

And if he says, "It is the dark,"

Then quickly bring the mare,

But if he says, "It is the blonde,"

Then you have time to spare;

But buy from off the saddler man

The stoutest cord you see,

Ride at your ease and say no word,

But bring it back to me.

THE ECHO

(After Heine)

Through the lonely mountain land

There rode a cavalier.

"Oh ride I to my darling's arms,

Or to the grave so drear?"

The Echo answered clear,

"The grave so drear."

So onward rode the cavalier

And clouded was his brow.

"If now my hour be truly come,

Ah well, it must be now!"

The Echo answered low,

"It must be now."

ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR

First begin

Taking in.

Cargo stored,

All aboard,

Think about

Giving out.

Empty ship,

Useless trip!

Never strain

Weary brain,

Hardly fit,

Wait a bit!

After rest

Comes the best.

Sitting still,

Let it fill;

Never press;

Nerve stress

Always shows.

Nature knows.

Critics kind,

Never mind!

Critics flatter,

No matter!

Critics curse,

None the worse.

Critics blame,

All the same!

Do your best.

Hang the rest!

A LILT OF THE ROAD

Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September, 1908

To St. Albans' town we came;

Roman Albanus — hence the name.

Whose shrine commemorates the faith

Which led him to a martyr's death.

A high cathedral marks his grave,

With noble screen and sculptured nave.

From thence to Hatfield lay our way,

Where the proud Cecils held their sway,

And ruled the country, more or less,

Since the days of Good Queen Bess.

Next through Hitchin's Quaker hold

To Bedford, where in days of old

John Bunyan, the unorthodox,

Did a deal in local stocks.

Then from Bedford's peaceful nook

Our pilgrim's progress still we took

Until we slackened up our pace

In Saint Neots' market-place.

Next day, the motor flying fast,

Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford

passed,

Until at Doncaster we found

That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's

bound.

Northward and ever North we pressed,

The Brontë Country to our West.

Still on we flew without a wait,

Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,

And through a wild and dark ravine,

As bleak a pass as we have seen,

Until we slowly circled down

And settled into Settle town.

On Sunday, in the pouring rain,

We started on our way again.

Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove,

The weary rain-clouds still above,

Until at last at Windermere

We felt our final port was near,

Thence the lake with wooded beach

Stretches far as eye can reach.

There above its shining breast

We enjoyed our welcome rest.

Tuesday saw us — still in rain —

Buzzing on our road again.

Rydal first, the smallest lake,

Famous for great Wordsworth's sake;

Grasmere next appeared in sight,

Grim Helvellyn on the right,

Till we made our downward way

To the streets of Keswick gray.

Then amid a weary waste

On to Penrith Town we raced,

And for many a flying mile,

Past the ramparts of Carlisle,

Till we crossed the border line

Of the land of Auld lang syne.

Here we paused at Gretna Green,

Where many curious things were seen

At the grimy blacksmith's shop,

Where flying couples used to stop

And forge within the smithy door

The chain which lasts for evermore.

They'd soon be back again, I think,

If blacksmith's skill could break the link.

Ecclefechan held us next,

Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed

By the clamour and the strife

Of this strange and varied life.

We saw his pipe, we saw his hat,

We saw the stone on which he sat.

The solid stone is resting there,

But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?

Over a dreary wilderness

We had to take our path by guess,

For Scotland's glories don't include

The use of signs to mark the road.

For forty miles the way ran steep

Over bleak hills with scattered sheep,

Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,

We saw the stately towers rise

Where noble Edinburgh lies —

No city fairer or more grand

Has ever sprung from human hand.

But I must add (the more's the pity)

That though in fair Dunedin's city

Scotland's taste is quite delightful,

The smaller Scottish towns are frightful.

When in other lands I roam

And sing "There is no place like home."

In this respect I must confess

That no place has its ugliness.

Here on my mother's granite breast

We settled down and took our rest.

On Saturday we ventured forth

To push our journey to the North.

Past Linlithgow first we sped,

Where the Palace rears its head,

Then on by Falkirk, till we pass

The famous valley and morass

Known as Bannockburn in story,

Brightest scene of Scottish glory.

On pleasure and instruction bent

We made the Stirling hill ascent,

And saw the wondrous vale beneath,

The  lovely  valley  of  Monteith,

Stretching under sunlit skies

To where the Trossach hills arise.

Thence we turned our willing car

Westward ho!   to Callander,

Where childish memories awoke

In the wood of ash and oak,

Where in days so long gone by

I heard the woodland pigeons cry,

And, consternation in my face,

Legged it to some safer place.

Next morning first we viewed a mound,

Memorial of some saint renowned,

And then the mouldered ditch and ramp

Which marked an ancient Roman camp.

Then past Lubnaig on we went,

Gazed on Ben Ledi's steep ascent,

And passed by lovely stream and valley

Through Dochart Glen to reach Dalmally,

Where on a rough and winding track

We wished ourselves in safety back;

Till on our left we gladly saw

The spreading waters of Loch Awe,

And still more gladly — truth to tell —

A very up-to-date hotel,

With Conan's church within its ground,

Which gave it quite a homely sound.

Thither we came upon the Sunday,

Viewed Kilchurn Castle on the Monday,

And Tuesday saw us sally forth

Bound for Oban and the North.

We came to Oban in the rain,

I need not mention it again,

For you may take it as a fact

That in that Western Highland tract

It sometimes spouts and sometimes drops,

But never, never, never stops.

From Oban on we thought it well

To take the steamer for a spell.

But ere the motor went aboard

The Pass of Melfort we explored.

A lovelier vale, more full of peace,

Was never seen in classic Greece;

A wondrous gateway, reft and torn,

To open out the land of Lome.

Leading on for many a mile

To the kingdom of Argyle.

Wednesday saw us on our way

Steaming out from Oban Bay,

(Lord, it was a fearsome day!)

To right and left we looked upon

All the lands of Stevenson —

Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,

Ardshiel,  Appin,  and  Mamore —

If their tale you wish to learn

Then to "Kidnapped" you must turn.

Strange that one man's eager brain

Can make those dead lands live again!

From the deck we saw Glencoe,

Where upon that night of woe

William's men did such a deed

As even now we blush to read.

Ben Nevis towered on our right,

The clouds concealed it from our sight,

But it was comforting to say

That over there Ben Nevis lay'.

Finally we made the land

At Fort William's sloping strand,

And in our car away we went

Along that lasting monument,

The good broad causeway which was made

By King George's General Wade.

He built a splendid road, no doubt,

Alas! he left the sign-posts out.

And so we wandered, sad to say,

Far from our appointed way,

Till twenty mile of rugged track

In a circle brought us back.

But the incident we viwed

In a philosophic mood.

Tired and hungry but serene

We settled at the Bridge of Spean.

Our journey now we onward press

Toward the town of Inverness,

Through a country all alive

With memories of "forty-five."

The noble clans once gathered here,

Where now are only grouse and deer.

Alas, that men and crops and herds

Should ever yield their place to birds!

And that the splendid Highland race

Be swept aside to give more space

For forests where the deer may stray

For some rich owner far away,

Whose keeper guards the lonely glen

Which once sent out a hundred men!

When from Inverness we turned,

Feeling that a rest was earned.

We stopped at Nairn, for golf links famed,

"Scotland's Brighton" it is named,

Though really, when the phrase we heard,

It seemed a little bit absurd,

For Brighton's size compared to Nairn

Is just a mother to her bairn.

We halted for a day of rest,

But took one journey to the West

To view old Cawdor's tower and moat

Of which unrivalled Shakespeare wrote,

Where once Macbeth, the schemer deep,

Slew royal Duncan in his sleep,

But actors since avenged his death

By often murdering Macbeth.

Hard by we saw the circles gray

Where Druid priests were wont to pray.

Three crumbling monuments we found,

With Stonehenge monoliths around,

But who had built and who had planned

We tried in vain to understand,

As future learned men may search

The reasons for our village church.

This was our limit, for next day

We turned upon, our homeward way,

Passing   first   Culloden's   plain

Where the tombstones of the slain

Loom above the purple heather.

There the clansmen lie together —

Men from many an outland skerry,

Men from Athol and Glengarry,

Camerons from wild  Mamore,

MacDonalds from the Irish Shore,

Red MacGregors and McLeods

With their tartans for their shrouds,

Menzies, Malcolms from the islands,

Frasers from the upper Highlands —

Callous is the passer by

Who can turn without a sigh

From the tufts of heather deep

Where the noble clansmen sleep.

Now we swiftly made our way

To Kingussie in Strathspey,

Skirting many a nameless loch

As we flew through Badenoch,

Till   at   Killiecrankie's  Pass,

Heather changing  into grass

We descended once again

To the fertile lowland plain,

And by Perth and old Dunblane

Reached the banks of Allan Water,

Famous for the miller's daughter,

Whence at last we circled back

Till we crossed our Stirling track.

So our little journey ended,

Gladness and instruction blended —

Not a care to spoil our pleasure,

Not a thought to break our leisure,

Drifting on from Sussex hedges

Up through Yorkshire's fells and ledges

Past the deserts and morasses

Of the dreary Border passes,

Through the scenes of Scottish story

Past the fields of battles gory.

In the future it will seem

To have been a happy dream,

But unless my hopes are vain

We may dream it soon again.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE ROAD ***

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Table of Contents

SONGS OF THE ROAD

CONTENTS

SONGS OF THE ROAD By Arthur Conan Doyle

Garden City New York DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1911

J. C. D. THIS-AND-ALL

February, 1911

FOREWORD

I. — NARRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS

SONGS OF THE ROAD

A HYMN OF EMPIRE

(Coronation Year, 1911)

SIR NIGEL'S SONG

THE ARAB STEED

A POST-IMPRESSIONIST

EMPIRE BUILDERS

THE GROOM'S ENCORE

THE BAY HORSE

THE OUTCASTS

THE END

1902-1909

THE WANDERER {1}

BENDY'S SERMON

II. — PHILOSOPHIC VERSES

COMPENSATION

THE BANNER OF PROGRESS

HOPE

RELIGIO MEDICI

MAN'S LIMITATION

MIND AND MATTER

DARKNESS

III — MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

A WOMAN'S LOVE

DECEMBER'S SNOW

SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION

THE EMPIRE

1902

A VOYAGE

1909

THE ORPHANAGE

SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR

NIGHT VOICES

THE MESSAGE

THE ECHO

ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR

A LILT OF THE ROAD

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE