Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)
Page 963
Those hills! My word, you would soon get fit,
Be you ever so stale and slack,
If you pad it with rifle and marching kit
To Rotherfield Hill and back!
Drills in hall, and drills outdoors,
And drills of every type,
Till we wore our boots with forming fours,
And our coats with “Shoulder hipe!”
No glory ours, no swank, no pay,
One dull eventless grind;
Find yourself, and nothing a day
Were the terms that the old boys signed.
Just drill and march and drill again,
And swot at the old parade,
But they got two hundred thousand men.
Not bad for the old brigade!
A good two hundred thousand came,
On the chance of that east coast fight;
They may have been old and stiff and lame,
But, by George, their hearts were right!
Discipline! My! “Eyes right!” they cried,
As we passed the drill hall door,
And left it at that — so we marched cock-eyed
From three to half-past four.
And solid! Why, after a real wet bout
In a hole in the Flanders mud,
It would puzzle the Boche to fetch us out,
For we couldn’t get out if we would!
Some think we could have stood war’s test,
Some say that we could not,
But a chap can only do his best,
And offer all he’s got.
Fall out, the guard! The old home guard!
Pile arms! Right turn! Dismiss!
No grousing, even if it’s hard
To break our ranks like this.
We can’t show much in the way of fun
For four and a half years gone;
If we’d had our chance — just one! just one! —
Carry on, old Sport, carry on!
THE NIGHT PATROL
September 1918
Behind me on the darkened pier
They crowd and chatter, man and maid,
A coon-song gently strikes the ear,
A flapper giggles in the shade.
There where the in-turned lantern gleams
It shines on khaki and on brass;
Across its yellow slanting beams
The arm-locked lovers slowly pass.
Out in the darkness one far light
Throbs like a pulse, and fades away —
Some signal on the guarded Wight,
From Helen’s Point to Bembridge Bay.
An eastern wind blows chill and raw,
Cheerless and black the waters lie,
And as I gaze athwart the haze,
I see the night patrol go by.
Creeping shadows blur the gloom,
Thicken and darken, pass and fade;
Again and yet again they loom,
One ruby spark above each shade —
Twelve ships in all! They glide so near,
One hears the wave the fore-foot curled,
And yet to those upon the pier
They seem some other sterner world.
The coon-song whimpers to a wail,
The treble laughter sinks and dies,
The lovers cluster on the rail,
With whispered words and straining eyes.
One hush of awe, and then once more
The vision fades for them and me,
And there is laughter on the shore,
And silent duty on the sea.
THE WRECK ON LOCH McGARRY
If you should search all Scotland round,
The mainland, skerries, and the islands,
A grimmer spot could not be found
Than Loch McGarry in the Highlands.
Pent in by frowning mountains high,
It stretches silent as the tomb,
Turbid and thick its waters lie,
No eye can pierce their yellow gloom.
‘Twas here that on a summer day
Four tourists hired a crazy wherry.
No warning voices bade them stay,
As they pushed out on Loch McGarry.
McFarlane, Chairman of the Board,
A grim hard-fisted son of lucre,
His thoughts were ever on his hoard,
And life a money-game, like Euchre.
Bob Ainslie, late of London Town,
A spruce young butterfly of fashion,
A wrinkle in his dressing-gown
Would rouse an apoplectic passion.
John Waters, John the self-absorbed,
With thoughts for ever inward bent,
Complacent, self-contained, self-orbed,
Wrapped in eternal self-content.
Lastly coquettish Mrs. Wild,
Chattering, rowdy, empty-headed;
At sight of her the whole world smiled,
Except the wretch whom she had wedded.
Such were the four who sailed that day,
To the Highlands each a stranger;
Sunlit and calm the wide loch lay,
With not a hint of coming danger.
Drifting they watched the heather hue,
The waters and the cliffs that bound them;
The air was still, the sky was blue,
Deceitful peace lay all around them.
McFarlane pondered on the stocks,
John Waters on his own perfection,
Bob Ainslie’s thoughts were on his socks,
And Mrs. Wild’s on her complexion.
When sudden — oh, that dreadful scream!
That cry from panic fear begotten!
The boat is gaping in each seam,
The worn-out planks are old and rotten.
With two small oars they work and strain,
A long mile from the nearer shore
They cease — their efforts are in vain;
She’s sinking fast, and all is o’er.
The yellow water, thick as pap,
Is crawling, crawling to the thwarts,
And as they mark its upward lap,
So fear goes crawling up their hearts.
Slowly, slowly, thick as pap,
The creeping yellow waters rise;
Like drowning mice within a trap,
They stare around with frantic eyes.
Ah, how clearly they could see
Every sin and shame and error!
How they vowed that saints they’d be,
If delivered from this terror!
How they squirmed and how they squealed!
How they shouted for assistance!
How they fruitlessly appealed
To the shepherds in the distance!
How they sobbed and how they moaned,
As the waters kept encroaching!
How they wept and stormed and groaned,
As they saw their fate approaching!
And they vowed each good resolve
Should be permanent as granite,
Never, never, to dissolve,
Firm and lasting like our planet.
See them sit, aghast and shrinking!
Surely it could not be true!
“Oh, have mercy! Oh, we’re sinking!
Oh, good Lord, what shall we do!”
Ah, it’s coming! Now she founders!
See the crazy wherry reel!
Downward to the rocks she flounders —
Just one foot beneath her keel!
In the shallow, turbid water
Lay the saving reef below.
Oh, the waste of high emotion!
Oh, the useless fear and woe!
Late that day four sopping tourists
To their quarters made their way,
And the brushes of Futurists
Scarce could paint their disarray.
And with half-amused compassion
They were viewed from the hotel,
From the pulp-clad beau of fashion,
To the saturated belle.
But a change was in their features,
And that change has come to tarry,
For they all are altered creatures
Since the wreck of Loch McGarry.
Now McFarlane never utters
Any talk of bills or bullion,
But continually mutters
Texts from Cyril or Tertullian.
As to Ainslie, he’s not caring
How the new-cut collar lies,
And has been detected wearing
Dinner-jackets with white ties.
Waters, who had never thought
In his life of others’ needs,
Has most generously bought
A nursing-home for invalids.
And the lady — ah, the lady!
She has turned from paths of sin,
And her husband’s face so shady
Now is brightened by a grin.
So misfortunes of to-day
Are the blessings of to-morrow,
And the wisest cannot say
What is joy and what is sorrow.
If your soul is arable
You can start this seed within it,
And my tiny parable
May just help you to begin it.
THE BIGOT
The foolish Roman fondly thought
That gods must be the same to all,
Each alien idol might be brought
Within their broad Pantheon Hall.
The vision of a jealous Jove
Was far above their feeble ken;
They had no Lord who gave them love,
But scowled upon all other men.
But in our dispensation bright,
What noble progress have we made!
We know that we are in the light,
And outer races in the shade.
Our kindly creed ensures us this —
That Turk and infidel and Jew
Are safely banished from the bliss
That’s guaranteed to me and you.
The Roman mother understood
That, if the babe upon her breast
Untimely died, the gods were good,
And the child’s welfare manifest.
With tender guides the soul would go
And there, in some Elysian bower,
The tiny bud plucked here below
Would ripen to the perfect flower.
Poor simpleton! Our faith makes plain
That, if no blest baptismal word
Has cleared the babe, it bears the stain
Which faithless Adam had incurred.
How philosophical an aim!
How wise and well-conceived a plan
Which holds the new-born babe to blame
For all the sins of early man!
Nay, speak not of its tender grace,
But hearken to our dogma wise:
Guilt lies behind that dimpled face,
And sin looks out from gentle eyes.
Quick, quick, the water and the bowl!
Quick with the words that lift the load!
Oh, hasten, ere that tiny soul
Shall pay the debt old Adam owed!
The Roman thought the souls that erred
Would linger in some nether gloom,
But somewhere, sometime, would be spared
To find some peace beyond the tomb.
In those dark halls, enshadowed, vast,
They flitted ever, sad and thin,
Mourning the unforgotten past
Until they shed the taint of sin.
And Pluto brooded over all
Within that land of night and fear,
Enthroned in some dark Judgment Hall,
A god himself, reserved, austere.
How thin and colourless and tame!
Compare our nobler scheme with it,
The howling souls, the leaping flame,
And all the tortures of the pit!
Foolish half-hearted Roman hell!
To us is left the higher thought
Of that eternal torture cell
Whereto the sinner shall be brought.
Out with the thought that God could share
Our weak relenting pity sense,
Or ever condescend to spare
The wretch who gave Him just offence!
‘Tis just ten thousand years ago
Since the vile sinner left his clay,
And yet no pity can he know,
For as he lies in hell to-day
So when ten thousand years have run
Still shall he lie in endless night.
O God of Love! O Holy One!
Have we not read Thy ways aright?
The godly man in heaven shall dwell,
And live in joy before the throne,
Though somewhere down in nether hell
His wife or children writhe and groan.
From his bright Empyrean height
He sees the reek from that abyss —
What Pagan ever dreamed a sight
So holy and sublime as this!
Poor foolish folk! Had they begun
To weigh the myths that they professed,
One hour of reason and each one
Would surely stand a fraud confessed.
Pretending to believe each deed
Of Theseus or of Hercules,
With fairy tales of Ganymede,
And gods of rocks and gods of trees!
No, no, had they our purer light
They would have learned some saner tale
Of Balaam’s ass, or Samson’s might,
Or prophet Jonah and his whale,
Of talking serpents and their ways,
Through which our foolish parents strayed,
And how there passed three nights and days
Before the sun or moon was made!
· · · ·
O Bigotry, you crowning sin!
All evil that a man can do
Has earthly bounds, nor can begin
To match the mischief done by you —
You, who would force the source of love
To play your small sectarian part,
And mould the mercy from above
To fit your own contracted heart.
THE ATHABASCA TRAIL
My life is gliding downwards; it speeds swifter to the day
When it shoots the last dark cañon to the Plains of Far-away,
But while its stream is running through the years that are to be,
The mighty voice of Canada will ever call to me.
I shall hear the roar of rivers where the rapids foam and tear,
I shall smell the virgin upland with its balsam-laden air,
And shall dream that I am riding down the winding woody vale
With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.
I have passed the warden cities at the Eastern water-gate
Where the hero and the martyr laid the corner stone of State,
The habitant, coureur-des-bois, and hardy voyageur —
Where lives a breed more strong at need to venture or endure?
I have seen the gorge of Erie where the roaring waters run,
I have crossed the Inland Ocean, lying golden in the sun,
But the last and best and sweetest is the ride by hill and dale
With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.
I’ll dream again of fields of grain that stretch from sky to sky
And the little prairie hamlets where the cars go roaring by,
Wooden hamlets as I saw them — noble cities still to be,
To girdle stately Canada with gems from sea to sea.
Mother of a mighty manhood, land of glamour and of hope,
From the eastward sea-swept islands to the sunny western slope,
Ever more my heart is with you, ever more till life shall fail
I’ll be out with pack and packer on the Athabasca Trail.
RAGTIME!
&nb
sp; [“During the catastrophe the band of the Titanic played negro melodies and ragtime until the last moment, when they broke into a hymn.” — Daily Paper.]
Ragtime! Ragtime! Keep it going still!
Let them hear the ragtime! Play it with a will!
Women in the lifeboats, men upon the wreck,
Take heart to hear the ragtime lilting down the deck.
Ragtime! Ragtime! Yet another tune!
Now the “Darkey Dandy,” now “The Yellow Coon!”
Brace against the bulwarks if the stand’s askew,
Find your footing as you can, but keep the music true!
There’s glowing hell beneath us where the shattered boilers roar,
The ship is listing and awash, the boats will hold no more!
There’s nothing more that you can do, and nothing you can mend,
Only keep the ragtime playing to the end.
Don’t forget the time, boys! Eyes upon the score!
Never heed the wavelets sobbing down the floor!
Play it as you played it when with eager feet
A hundred pair of dancers were stamping to the beat.
Stamping to the ragtime down the lamp-lit deck,
With shine of glossy linen and with gleam of snowy neck,
They’ve other thoughts to think to-night, and other things to do,
But the tinkle of the ragtime may help to see them through.
Shut off, shut off the ragtime! The lights are falling low!
The deck is buckling under us! She’s sinking by the bow!
One hymn of hope from dying hands on dying ears to fall —
Gently the music fades away — and so, God rest us all!
CHRISTMAS IN WARTIME
1916
Cheer oh, comrades, we can bide the blast