Poems by Arthur Conan Doyle

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H. M. S. Foudroyant

Ho! Says the Nation's purse is lean,
Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
Are scheduled as a cash asset?
If times are bleak and trade is slack,
If coal and cotton fail at last,
We've something left to barter yet-
Our glorious past.

There's many a crypt in which lies hid
The dust of statesman or of king;
There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid,
And Milton's house its price would bring.
What for the sword that Cromwell drew?
What for Prince Edward's coat of mail?
What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb?
They're all for sale!

And stone and marble may be sold
Which serve no present daily need;
There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old,
And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed.
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these? Just price them, please,
In British pounds.

You hucksters, have you still to learn,
The things which money will not buy?
Can you not read that, cold and stern
As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
For what concerns our island story?
We sell our work - perchance our lives,
But not our glory.

Go barter to the knacker's yard
The steed that has outlived its time!
Send hungry to the pauper ward
The man who served you in his prime!
But when you touch the Nation's store,
Be broad your mind and tight your grip.
Take heed! And bring us back once more
Our Nelson's ship.

And if no mooring can be found
In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.
There let her lie!

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The Groom's Story

Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss,
But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an'that's good enough for us.

We knew as it was in' im. 'E's thoroughbred, three part,
We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart;
For "e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin" dignified,
It seemed a kind ̣ liberty to drive 'im or to ride;

For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do.
But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view.
'E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay,
'e wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away.

And yet we knew 'twas in' im; we knew as 'e could fly;
But what we couldn't get at was 'ow to make 'im try.
We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day,
We got the last yard out of "m in a most amazin" way.

It was all along ̣ master; which master 'as the name
Of a reg'lar true blue sportsman, an'always acts the same;
But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one,
An''e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick--
a greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You've a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an'bred in a blacksmith's shop.

It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom,
It didn't need no nothin' but a bit ̣ standin' room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an'it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.

Well, master took 'is motor-car, an'moted 'ere an'there,
a frightenin' the 'orses an'a poisenin' the air.
'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor! --what _did_ 'e know,
Excep'that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An'then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again
But somethin' jammed, an'there 'e stuck in the mud of a country lane.
It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?
So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.

This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an'when we reached the car,
We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side,
While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an'looked most dignified.

Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,
And 'e seemed to say, 'Well, bĺ me! Wot _will_ they ask me next?
I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,
To be assistant engine to a crocky motor car! '

Well, master, "e was in the car, a-fiddlin" with the gear,
An'the 'orse was meditatin', an'I was standin' near,
When master 'e touched somethin'--what it was we'll never know--
But it sort ̣ spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.

"Old 'ard, old gal! ' says master, and 'Gently then! ' says I,
But an engine wont 'eed coaxin' an'it ain' t no use to try;
So first 'e pulled a lever, an'then 'e turned a screw,
But the thing kept crawlin' forrard spite of all that 'e could do.

And first it went quite slowly, and the 'orse went also slow,
But 'e 'ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;
For the car kept crowdin' on 'im and buttin''im along,
An'in less than 'alf a minute, sir, that 'orse was goin' strong.

At first 'e walked quite dignified, an'then 'e had to trot,
And then 'e tried to canter when the pace became too 'ot.
'E looked 'is very 'aughtiest, as if 'e didn't mind,
And all the time the motor-car was pushin''im be'ind.

Now, master lost 'is 'ead when 'e found 'e couldn't stop,
And 'e pulled a valve or somethin' an'somethin' else went pop,
An'somethin' else went fizzywig, an'in a flash or less,
That blessed car was goin' like a limited express.

Master 'eld the steerin' gear, an'kept the road all right,
And away they whizzed and clattered--my aunt! It was a sight.
'E seemed the finest draught 'orse as ever lived by far,
For all the country Juggins thought 'twas 'im wot pulled the car.

'E was stretchin' like a grey'ound, 'e was goin' all 'e knew,
But it bumped an'shoved be'ind 'im, for all that 'e could do;
It butted 'im and boosted 'im an'spanked 'im on a'ead,
Till 'e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.

Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The only time we ever found what that 'ere 'orse could do.
Some say it wasn't 'ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,
But 'e broke the ten-mile record, and that's good enough for us.

You see that 'orse's tail, sir? You don't! No more do we,
Which really ain' t surprisin', for 'e 'as no tail to see;
That engine wore it off 'im before master made it stop,
And all the road was litter'd like a bloomin' barber's shop.

And master? Well, it cured 'im. 'E altered from that day,
And come back to 'is 'orses in the good old-fashioned way.
And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far,
Is to 'int as 'ow you think 'e ought to keep a motorcar.

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Religio Medici

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.

For all is good, if understood,
(Ah, could we understand!)
And right and ill are tools of skill
Held in His either hand.

The harlot and the anchorite,
The martyr and the rake,
Deftly He fashions each aright,
Its vital part to take.

Wisdom He makes to form the fruit
Where the high blossoms be;
And Lust to kill the weaker shoot,
And srink to trim the tree.

And Holiness that so the bole
Be solid at the core;
And Plague and Fever, that the whole
Be changing evermore.

He strews the microbes in the lung,
The blood-clot in the brain;
With test and test He picks the best,
Then test them once again.

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.

He chokes the infant throat with slime,
He sets the ferment free;
He builds the tiny tube of lime
That blocks the artery.

He lets the youthful dreamer store
Great projects in his brain,
Until He drops the fungus spore
That smears them out again.

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.

And still He trains the branch of good
Where the high blossoms be,
And wieldeth still the shears of ill
To prune and prune His tree.

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A Tragedy

Who's that walking on the moorland?
Who's that moving on the hill?
They are passing 'mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

Who's that calling on the moorland?
Who's that crying on the hill?
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

Who's that running on the moorland?
Who's that flying on the hill?
He is there - and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,
For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.

What's that lying in the heather?
What's that lurking on the hill?
My horse will go no nearer,
And I cannot see it clearer,
But there's something that is lying on the hill.

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Master

Master went a-hunting,
When the leaves were falling;
We saw him on the bridle path,
We heard him gaily calling.

"Oh master, master, come you back,
For I have dreamed a dream so black!"
A glint of steel from bit and heel,
The chestnut cantered faster;
a red flash seen amid the green,
And so good-bye to master.

Master came from hunting,
Two silent comrades bore him;
His eyes were dim, his face was white,
The mare was led before him.

"Oh, master, master, is it thus
That you have come again to us?"
I held my lady's ice-cold hand,
They bore the hurdle past her;
Why should they go so soft and slow?
It matters not to master.

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Retrospect

There is a better thing, dear heart,
Than youthful flush or girlish grace.
There is the faith that never fails,
The courage in the danger place,
The duty seen, and duty done,
The heart that yearns for all in need,
The lady soul which could not stoop
To selfish thought or lowly deed.
All that we ever dreamed, dear wife,
Seems drab and common by the truth,
The sweet sad mellow things of life
Are more than golden dreams of youth.

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A Hunting Morning

Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,
And autumn all below.
For the red leaves are flying
And the red bracken dying,
And the red fox lying
Where the oziers grow.

Put the bridle on the mare,
For my blood runs chill;
And my heart, it is there,
On the heather-tufted hill,
With the gray skies o'er us,
And the long-drawn chorus
Of a running pack before us
From the find to the kill.

Then lead round the mare,
For it's time that we began,
And away with thought and care,
Save to live and be a man,
While the keen air is blowing,
And the huntsman holloing,
And the black mare going
As the black mare can.

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What marks the frontier line?
Thou man of India, say!
Is it the Himalayas sheer,
The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,
Or Indus as she seeks the south
From Attoch to the fivefold mouth?
"Not that! Not that!"
Then answer me, I pray!
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
Thou man of Burmah, speak!
Is it traced from Mandalay,
And down the marches of Cathay,
From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,
And where the buried rubies lie?
"Not that! Not that!"
Then tell me what I seek:
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
Thou Africander, say!
Is it shown by Zulu kraal,
By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,
Or where the Shire waters seek
Their outlet east at Mozambique?
"Not that! Not that!
There is a surer way
To mark the frontier line."

What marks the frontier line? Thou man of Egypt, tell! Is it traced on Luxor's sand, Where Karnak's painted pillars stand, Or where the river runs between The Ethiop and Bishareen? 'Not that! Not that! By neither stream nor well We mark the frontier line.

'But be it east or west,
One common sign we bear,
The tongue may change, the soil, the sky,
But where your British brothers lie,
The lonely cairn, the nameless grave,
Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave.
'Tis that! 'Tis where they lie-the men who placed it there,
That marks the frontier line. '

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A Parable

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow.

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The Franklin's Maid

The franklin he hath gone to roam,
The franklin's maid she bides at home;
But she is cold, and coy, and staid,
And who may win the franklin's maid?
There came a knight of high renown In bassinet and ciclatoun;
On bended knee full long he prayed -
He might not win the franklin's maid.
There came a squire so debonair,
His dress was rich, his words were fair.
He sweetly sang, he deftly played -
He could not win the franklin's maid.
There came a mercer wonder-fine,
With velvet cap and gaberdine;
For all his ships, for all his trade,
He could not buy the franklin's maid.
There came an archer bold and true,
With bracer guard and stave of yew;
His purse was light, his jerkin frayed -
Haro, alas! The franklin's maid!
Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,
And some have scoured the countryside;
But off they ride through wood and glade,
The bowman and the franklin's maid.