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diff --git a/21769-0.txt b/21769-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..40a23a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/21769-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2798 @@ +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 *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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