Poetries by Arthur Conan Doyle

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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 the 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.

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The Guards Came Through

Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night—
God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
But sticking it—sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the Hun!
Northumberland, Lancaster, York,
Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it—sticking it yet.

Never a message of hope!
Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"
And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"
And the Guards came through.

Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
Dressing as straight as a hem,
We—we were down on our knees,
Praying for us and for them?
Lord, I could speak for a week,
But how could you understand!
How should your cheeks be wet,
Such feelin's don't come to you.
But when can me or my mates forget,
When the Guards came through?

"Five yards left extend!"
It passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
Arms at the trail, eyes front!

Man, it was great to see!
Man, it was fine to do!
It's a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I'll tell'em in Blighty, wherever I be,
How the Guards came through.

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Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
"Never look down!
Stick to the line!"
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.

A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.
Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
Picking his way,
Dainty and fine,
Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.

Touring from London, so he said.
Was it copper they dug for? Or gold? Or lead?
Where did they find it? How did it come?
If he tried with a shovel might he get some?
Stooping so much
Was bad for the spine;
And wasn't it warmish in Pennarby mine?

'Twas like two worlds that met that day-
The world of work and the world of play;
And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft
Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.
'Got 'em all out! '
"a cousin of mine!"
So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.

And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,
Told him the facts about the pit:
How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell
Warned them off from tapping - well,
He wouldn't say what,
But they took it as sign
To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.

Then leaning over and peering in,
He was pointing out what he said was tin
In the ten-foot lode - a crash! A jar!
A grasping hand and a splintered bar.
Gone in his strength,
With the lips that laughed-
Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!

Far down on a narrow ledge,
They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.
'Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay!
That rope ain't safe! It's worn away!
He's taking his chance,
Slack out the line!
Sweet Lord be with him! 'Cried Pennarby mine.

'He's got him! He has him! Pull with a will!
Thank God! He's over and breathing still.
And he - Lord's sakes now! What's that? Well!
Blowed if it ain't our London swell.
Your heart is right
If your coat is fine:
Give us your hand! 'Cried Pennarby mine.