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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs Of The Road, by Arthur Conan Doyle
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Songs Of The Road
+
+Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
+
+Release Date: July 2, 2007 [eBook #21769]
+[Most recently updated: January 20, 2022]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: 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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+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" />
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+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs of the Road, by Arthur Conan Doyle</title>
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Songs Of The Road, by Arthur Conan Doyle</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Songs Of The Road</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Arthur Conan Doyle</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 2, 2007 [eBook #21769]<br />
+[Most recently updated: January 20, 2022]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Widger</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE ROAD ***</div>
+
+<h1>SONGS OF THE ROAD</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE</h2>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"><big><b>I. &mdash; NARRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS</b></big></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">SONGS OF THE ROAD</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">A HYMN OF EMPIRE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">SIR NIGEL'S SONG</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">THE ARAB STEED</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">A POST-IMPRESSIONIST</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">EMPIRE BUILDERS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">THE GROOM'S ENCORE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">THE BAY HORSE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">THE OUTCASTS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">THE END</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">1902-1909</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0015">THE WANDERER</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0016">BENDY'S SERMON</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0017"><big><b>II. &mdash; PHILOSOPHIC VERSES</b></big></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0018">COMPENSATION</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0019">THE BANNER OF PROGRESS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0020">HOPE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0021">RELIGIO MEDICI</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0022">MAN'S LIMITATION</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0023">MIND AND MATTER</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0024">DARKNESS</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0025"><big><b>III &mdash; MISCELLANEOUS VERSES</b></big></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0026">A WOMAN'S LOVE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0027">BY THE NORTH SEA</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#linkdecember_snow">DECEMBER'S SNOW</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0028">SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0029">THE EMPIRE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0030">A VOYAGE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0031">THE ORPHANAGE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0032">SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0033">NIGHT VOICES</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0034">THE MESSAGE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0035">THE ECHO</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0036">ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0037">A LILT OF THE ROAD</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><big><big>SONGS OF THE ROAD</big></big></h2>
+
+<h2>By Arthur Conan Doyle</h2>
+
+<h4>Garden City New York<br />
+DOUBLEDAY, PAGE &amp; COMPANY<br />
+<br />
+1911</h4>
+
+<h3>J. C. D.<br />
+<br />
+THIS-AND-ALL</h3>
+
+<h4>February, 1911</h4>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>FOREWORD</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a>
+I. &mdash; NARRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a>
+SONGS OF THE ROAD</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a>
+A HYMN OF EMPIRE</h2>
+
+<h3>(Coronation Year, 1911)</h3>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a>
+SIR NIGEL'S SONG</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash; and only thrall,
+          Sweet lady mine, to you!
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a>
+THE ARAB STEED</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash;
+          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 <i>are</i> 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 &mdash;
+     Which is a name they give a 'orse
+          Of some outlandish breed &mdash;,
+     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 &mdash;
+          Or wot '<i>e</i> 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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a>
+A POST-IMPRESSIONIST</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash;
+     He of whom it has been said
+     He lives a century ahead &mdash;
+     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 &mdash; 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&mdash;
+     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&mdash;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."
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a>
+EMPIRE BUILDERS</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a>
+THE GROOM'S ENCORE</h2>
+
+<h5>(Being a Sequel to "The Groom's Story" in "Songs of Action")</h5>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash;
+     "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 '<i>e</i> was beat. 'Is
+             'orse 'ad tripped and fell.
+     "By George," said Brown, "I'll go alone,
+             and follow it to &mdash; 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 &mdash; them
+             two was all the pack &mdash;
+     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 &mdash; 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 &mdash; 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 &mdash;
+             "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 &mdash; 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 &mdash; and I
+             don't mind if I do,
+     I 'aven't seen no wolf myself &mdash; so 'ere's
+             my best to you!
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a>
+THE BAY HORSE</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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,
+          <i>He</i> 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!
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a>
+THE OUTCASTS</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a>
+THE END</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     "Tell me what to get and I will get
+             it."
+          "Then get that picture &mdash; that &mdash; the
+             girl in white."
+     "Now tell me where you wish that I should
+             set it."
+          "Lean it where I can see it &mdash; in the
+             light."
+
+     "If there is more, sir, you have but to say
+             it."
+          "Then bring   those  letters &mdash; 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!"
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a>
+1902-1909</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash;
+          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 &mdash; 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 &mdash; 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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"></a>
+THE WANDERER {1}</h2>
+
+<h5>1 With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.</h5>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     '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?"
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"></a>
+BENDY'S SERMON</h2>
+
+    <p>
+      [Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to
+      religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]
+    </p>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash; 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 &mdash; and maybe it's as well.
+
+     Bendy he turned Methodist&mdash;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"&mdash;and here he laid his
+          Bible on the shelf&mdash;
+     "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 &mdash; 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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"></a>
+II. &mdash; PHILOSOPHIC VERSES</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"></a>
+COMPENSATION</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"></a>
+THE BANNER OF PROGRESS</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"></a>
+HOPE</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"></a>
+RELIGIO MEDICI</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 <i>all</i> 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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"></a>
+MAN'S LIMITATION</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash;
+          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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"></a>
+MIND AND MATTER</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"></a>
+DARKNESS</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash; the blunder of a horse,
+          The crash upon the frozen clods,
+     And &mdash; 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 &mdash; enough!
+          Lord help us, for we need Thine aid!
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"></a>
+III &mdash; MISCELLANEOUS VERSES</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"></a>
+A WOMAN'S LOVE</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I am not blind &mdash; 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 &mdash;
+          And I &mdash; I loathe him! &mdash; 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 &mdash;
+          You only tell me what I see &mdash;
+     I know him selfish, cold and vain;
+          But, oh! he's all the world to me!
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"></a>
+BY THE NORTH SEA</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="linkdecember_snow" id="linkdecember_snow"></a>
+DECEMBER'S SNOW</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"></a>
+SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+          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) &mdash;
+     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.
+          <i>Imprimis</i>, 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 &mdash;
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"></a>
+THE EMPIRE</h2>
+
+<h3>1902</h3>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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."
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"></a>
+A VOYAGE</h2>
+
+<h3>1909</h3>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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,
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"></a>
+THE ORPHANAGE</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+      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 &mdash; to be played by you.
+      Then act it well! An orphan's heart
+           May beat the lighter if you do.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"></a>
+SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 &mdash; well, say thirty-nine.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"></a>
+NIGHT VOICES</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"></a>
+THE MESSAGE</h2>
+
+<p>
+(From Heine)
+</p>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"></a>
+THE ECHO</h2>
+
+<p>
+(After Heine)
+</p>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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."
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"></a>
+ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR</h2>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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!
+     <i>Do your best</i>.
+     Hang the rest!
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"></a>
+A LILT OF THE ROAD</h2>
+
+<h5><i>Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September</i>, 1908</h5>
+
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     To St. Albans' town we came;
+     Roman Albanus &mdash; 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 &mdash; still in rain &mdash;
+     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 &mdash;
+     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 &mdash; truth to tell &mdash;
+     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 &mdash;
+     Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,
+     Ardshiel,  Appin,  and  Mamore &mdash;
+     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 &mdash;
+     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 &mdash;
+     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 &mdash;
+     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.
+</pre>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #21769 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21769)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs Of The Road, by Arthur Conan Doyle
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs Of The Road
+
+Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
+
+Release Date: July 2, 2007 [EBook #21769]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE ROAD ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+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 {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
+
+     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
+[1]
+
+
+
+
+SONGS OF THE ROAD
+
+
+
+
+A HYMN OF EMPIRE
+
+(Coronation Year, 1911)
+[3]
+
+     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!
+[4]  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,
+[5]  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,
+[6]              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!
+[7]  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
+
+[8]  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.
+[9]  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
+
+[10] 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 &mdash;
+          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,
+[11] 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 &mdash;
+     Which is a name they give a 'orse
+          Of some outlandish breed &mdash;,
+     And soon 'e found a customer,
+          A proper sportin' gent,
+     Who planked 'is money down at once
+          Without no argument.
+
+[12] 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.
+
+[13] The moment that 'e 'ad the cash &mdash;
+          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?
+
+[14] 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.
+
+[15] 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
+
+[16] 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;
+[17] 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,
+[18] 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.
+
+[19] Thus in most repentant mood
+     Unhappy Peter Wilson stood,
+     When, with pompous face, self-centred,
+     Willoughby the critic entered &mdash;
+     He of whom it has been said
+     He lives a century ahead &mdash;
+     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!
+
+[20] 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&mdash;
+     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&mdash;and here you are."
+
+[21] 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
+
+[22] 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,
+[23] 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."
+[24] "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;
+[25] 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
+[26]
+
+(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,
+[27] 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;
+[28] 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,
+[29] 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!
+[30] 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 &mdash;
+     "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.
+[31] 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.
+[32] 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 &mdash;
+[33] 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;
+[34] Too scared to speak, with shriek on shriek,
+             Brown galloped from the sight
+     With just one thought within 'is mind &mdash;
+             "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,
+[35] 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
+[36]
+
+     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.
+[37] 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!
+[38] 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
+[39]
+
+     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."
+
+[40] 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.
+
+[41] But the angel drew her sisters three,
+          Within her pinions' span,
+     And the crouching devil slunk away
+          To join the godly man.
+
+
+
+
+THE END
+[42]
+
+     "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."
+[43] "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!
+[44] When you return I may perchance be
+            sleeping,
+          So, ere you go, one hand-clasp
+            and good night!"
+
+
+
+
+1902-1909
+[45]
+
+     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.
+
+[46] 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,
+[47] 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.
+
+[48] 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,
+[49] And they left him to the nursing
+          Of the daughters of their master.
+
+     Now the second daughter, Sadie &mdash;
+          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.
+
+[50] 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,
+[51] 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."
+
+[52] 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}
+[53]
+
+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.
+
+[54] 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!"
+
+[55] 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.
+
+[56] 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.
+
+[57] 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.
+
+[58] 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.
+
+[59] 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
+[60]
+
+[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!
+
+[61] 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.
+
+[62] Bendy he turned Methodist&mdash;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.
+
+[63] 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.
+
+[64] 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.
+
+[65] 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!"
+
+[66] 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"&mdash;and here he laid his
+          Bible on the shelf&mdash;
+     "I'll take, with your permission, just five
+          minutes for myself."
+
+[67] 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.
+
+[68] 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.
+
+[69] 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.
+
+
+
+[71]
+
+II. PHILOSOPHIC VERSES
+
+
+
+
+COMPENSATION
+[73]
+
+     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.
+
+[74] 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,
+[75] 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.
+
+[76] 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
+[77]
+
+     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.
+[78] 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
+[79]
+
+     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.
+[80] 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.
+[81] 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
+[82]
+
+     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.
+
+[83] 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.
+
+[84] 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.
+
+[85] 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
+[86]
+
+     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?
+
+[87] 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 &mdash;
+          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.
+
+[88] 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
+[89]
+
+     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.
+
+[90] 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
+[91]
+
+     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!
+[92] 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
+[93]
+
+
+
+
+A WOMAN'S LOVE
+[95]
+
+     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 &mdash;
+          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.
+[96] His thoughts are set on paltry gain &mdash;
+          You only tell me what I see &mdash;
+     I know him selfish, cold and vain;
+          But, oh! he's all the world to me!
+
+
+
+
+BY THE NORTH SEA
+[97]
+
+     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,
+[98] 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
+[99]
+
+     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.
+
+[100] 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
+[101]
+
+          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) &mdash;
+     That this same Verulam had writ the plays
+     Which were the fancies of my frolic brain.
+     What can they urge to dispossess the crown
+[102] 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;
+[103] 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
+[104] 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
+[105] 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;
+[106] So, too, the epitaph which still you read?
+     Think you they faced my sepulchre with
+          lies &mdash;
+     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
+[107]
+
+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
+[108]
+
+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.
+
+[109] 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.
+
+[110] 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
+[111]
+
+      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?
+
+[112]  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
+[113]
+
+     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;
+[114] 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
+[115]
+
+     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.
+
+[116] 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
+[117]
+
+(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;
+
+[118] 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
+[119]
+
+(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
+[120]
+
+     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.
+
+[121] 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
+[122]
+
+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
+[123] 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,
+[124] 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 &mdash;
+     Buzzing on our road again.
+
+[125] 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.
+
+[126] 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,
+[127] Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,
+     We saw the stately towers rise
+     Where noble Edinburgh lies &mdash;
+     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.
+
+[128] 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,
+[129] 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 &mdash;
+     A very up-to-date hotel,
+[130] 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;
+[131] 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 &mdash;
+     Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,
+     Ardshiel,  Appin,  and  Mamore &mdash;
+     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
+[132] 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
+[133] 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,
+[134] 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.
+
+[135] 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 &mdash;
+     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 &mdash;
+     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
+[137] Till we crossed our Stirling track.
+     So our little journey ended,
+     Gladness and instruction blended &mdash;
+     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 of Songs Of The Road, by Arthur Conan Doyle
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE ROAD ***
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs Of The Road, by Arthur Conan Doyle
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs Of The Road
+
+Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
+
+Release Date: July 2, 2007 [EBook #21769]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE ROAD ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+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 {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
+
+     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
+[1]
+
+
+
+
+SONGS OF THE ROAD
+
+
+
+
+A HYMN OF EMPIRE
+
+(Coronation Year, 1911)
+[3]
+
+     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!
+[4]  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,
+[5]  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,
+[6]              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!
+[7]  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
+
+[8]  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.
+[9]  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
+
+[10] 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 &mdash;
+          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,
+[11] 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 &mdash;
+     Which is a name they give a 'orse
+          Of some outlandish breed &mdash;,
+     And soon 'e found a customer,
+          A proper sportin' gent,
+     Who planked 'is money down at once
+          Without no argument.
+
+[12] 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.
+
+[13] The moment that 'e 'ad the cash &mdash;
+          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?
+
+[14] 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.
+
+[15] 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
+
+[16] 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;
+[17] 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,
+[18] 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.
+
+[19] Thus in most repentant mood
+     Unhappy Peter Wilson stood,
+     When, with pompous face, self-centred,
+     Willoughby the critic entered &mdash;
+     He of whom it has been said
+     He lives a century ahead &mdash;
+     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!
+
+[20] 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&mdash;
+     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&mdash;and here you are."
+
+[21] 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
+
+[22] 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,
+[23] 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."
+[24] "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;
+[25] 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
+[26]
+
+(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,
+[27] 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;
+[28] 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,
+[29] 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!
+[30] 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 &mdash;
+     "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.
+[31] 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.
+[32] 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 &mdash;
+[33] 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;
+[34] Too scared to speak, with shriek on shriek,
+             Brown galloped from the sight
+     With just one thought within 'is mind &mdash;
+             "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,
+[35] 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
+[36]
+
+     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.
+[37] 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!
+[38] 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
+[39]
+
+     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."
+
+[40] 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.
+
+[41] But the angel drew her sisters three,
+          Within her pinions' span,
+     And the crouching devil slunk away
+          To join the godly man.
+
+
+
+
+THE END
+[42]
+
+     "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."
+[43] "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!
+[44] When you return I may perchance be
+            sleeping,
+          So, ere you go, one hand-clasp
+            and good night!"
+
+
+
+
+1902-1909
+[45]
+
+     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.
+
+[46] 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,
+[47] 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.
+
+[48] 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,
+[49] And they left him to the nursing
+          Of the daughters of their master.
+
+     Now the second daughter, Sadie &mdash;
+          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.
+
+[50] 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,
+[51] 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."
+
+[52] 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}
+[53]
+
+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.
+
+[54] 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!"
+
+[55] 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.
+
+[56] 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.
+
+[57] 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.
+
+[58] 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.
+
+[59] 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
+[60]
+
+[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!
+
+[61] 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.
+
+[62] Bendy he turned Methodist&mdash;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.
+
+[63] 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.
+
+[64] 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.
+
+[65] 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!"
+
+[66] 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"&mdash;and here he laid his
+          Bible on the shelf&mdash;
+     "I'll take, with your permission, just five
+          minutes for myself."
+
+[67] 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.
+
+[68] 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.
+
+[69] 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.
+
+
+
+[71]
+
+II. PHILOSOPHIC VERSES
+
+
+
+
+COMPENSATION
+[73]
+
+     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.
+
+[74] 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,
+[75] 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.
+
+[76] 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
+[77]
+
+     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.
+[78] 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
+[79]
+
+     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.
+[80] 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.
+[81] 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
+[82]
+
+     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.
+
+[83] 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.
+
+[84] 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.
+
+[85] 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
+[86]
+
+     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?
+
+[87] 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 &mdash;
+          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.
+
+[88] 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
+[89]
+
+     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.
+
+[90] 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
+[91]
+
+     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!
+[92] 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
+[93]
+
+
+
+
+A WOMAN'S LOVE
+[95]
+
+     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 &mdash;
+          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.
+[96] His thoughts are set on paltry gain &mdash;
+          You only tell me what I see &mdash;
+     I know him selfish, cold and vain;
+          But, oh! he's all the world to me!
+
+
+
+
+BY THE NORTH SEA
+[97]
+
+     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,
+[98] 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
+[99]
+
+     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.
+
+[100] 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
+[101]
+
+          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) &mdash;
+     That this same Verulam had writ the plays
+     Which were the fancies of my frolic brain.
+     What can they urge to dispossess the crown
+[102] 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;
+[103] 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
+[104] 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
+[105] 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;
+[106] So, too, the epitaph which still you read?
+     Think you they faced my sepulchre with
+          lies &mdash;
+     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
+[107]
+
+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
+[108]
+
+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.
+
+[109] 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.
+
+[110] 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
+[111]
+
+      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?
+
+[112]  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
+[113]
+
+     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;
+[114] 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
+[115]
+
+     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.
+
+[116] 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
+[117]
+
+(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;
+
+[118] 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
+[119]
+
+(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
+[120]
+
+     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.
+
+[121] 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
+[122]
+
+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
+[123] 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 Bronte Country to our West.
+     Still on we flew without a wait,
+     Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,
+[124] 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 &mdash;
+     Buzzing on our road again.
+
+[125] 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.
+
+[126] 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,
+[127] Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,
+     We saw the stately towers rise
+     Where noble Edinburgh lies &mdash;
+     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.
+
+[128] 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,
+[129] 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 &mdash;
+     A very up-to-date hotel,
+[130] 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;
+[131] 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 &mdash;
+     Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,
+     Ardshiel,  Appin,  and  Mamore &mdash;
+     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
+[132] 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
+[133] 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,
+[134] 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.
+
+[135] 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 &mdash;
+     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 &mdash;
+     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
+[137] Till we crossed our Stirling track.
+     So our little journey ended,
+     Gladness and instruction blended &mdash;
+     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 of Songs Of The Road, by Arthur Conan Doyle
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