My life is gliding downwards; it speeds swifter to the day
When it shoots the last dark cañon to the Plains of Far-away,
But while its stream is running through the years that are to be,
The mighty voice of Canada will ever call to me.
I shall hear the roar of rivers where the rapids foam and tear,
I shall smell the virgin upland with its balsam-laden air,
And shall dream that I am riding down the winding woody vale
With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.
I have passed the warden cities at the Eastern water-gate
Where the hero and the martyr laid the corner stone of State,
The habitant, coureur-des-bois, and hardy voyageur—
Where lives a breed more strong at need to venture or endure?
I have seen the gorge of Erie where the roaring waters run,
I have crossed the Inland Ocean, lying golden in the sun,
But the last and best and sweetest is the ride by hill and dale
With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.
I'll dream again of fields of grain that stretch from sky to sky
And the little prairie hamlets where the cars go roaring by,
Wooden hamlets as I saw them—noble cities still to be,
To girdle stately Canada with gems from sea to sea.
Mother of a mighty manhood, land of glamour and of hope,
From the eastward sea-swept islands to the sunny western slope,
Ever more my heart is with you, ever more till life shall fail
I'll be out with pack and packer on the Athabasca Trail.
RAGTIME!
[“During the catastrophe the band of the Titanic played negro melodies and ragtime until the last moment, when they broke into a hymn.”—Daily Paper.]
Ragtime! Ragtime! Keep it going still!
Let them hear the ragtime! Play it with a will!
Women in the lifeboats, men upon the wreck,
Take heart to hear the ragtime lilting down the deck.
Ragtime! Ragtime! Yet another tune!
Now the “Darkey Dandy,” now “The Yellow Coon!”
Brace against the bulwarks if the stand's askew,
Find your footing as you can, but keep the music true!
There's glowing hell beneath us where the shattered boilers roar,
The ship is listing and awash, the boats will hold no more!
There's nothing more that you can do, and nothing you can mend,
Only keep the ragtime playing to the end.
Don't forget the time, boys! Eyes upon the score!
Never heed the wavelets sobbing down the floor!
Play it as you played it when with eager feet
A hundred pair of dancers were stamping to the beat.
Stamping to the ragtime down the lamp-lit deck,
With shine of glossy linen and with gleam of snowy neck,
They've other thoughts to think to-night, and other things to do,
But the tinkle of the ragtime may help to see them through.
Shut off, shut off the ragtime! The lights are falling low!
The deck is buckling under us! She's sinking by the bow!
One hymn of hope from dying hands on dying ears to fall—
Gently the music fades away—and so, God rest us all!
CHRISTMAS IN WARTIME
1916
Cheer oh, comrades, we can bide the blast
And face the gloom until it shall grow lighter.
What though one Christmas should be overcast,
If duty done makes all the others brighter.
1917
THE LAST LAP
We seldom were quick off the mark,
And sprinting was never our game;
But when it's insistence and hold-for-the-distance,
We've never been beat at that same.
The first lap was all to the Hun,
At the second we still saw his back;
But we knew how to wait and to spurt down the straight,
Till we left him dead-beat on the track.
He's a bluffer for all he is worth,
But he's winded and done to the core,
So the last lap is here, with the tape very near,
And the old colours well to the fore.
1918
Not merry! No—the words would grate,
With gaps at every table-side,
But chastened, thankful, calm, sedate,
Be your victorious Christmas-tide.
LINDISFAIRE
Horses go down the dingy lane,
But never a horse comes up again.
The greasy yard where the red hides lie
Marks the place where the horses die.
Wheat was sinking year by year,
I bought things cheap, I sold them dear;
Rent was heavy and taxes high,
And a weary-hearted man was I.
In Lindisfaire I walked my grounds,
I hadn't the heart to ride to hounds;
And as I walked in black despair,
I saw my old bay hunter there.
He tried to nuzzle against my cheek,
He looked the grief he could not speak;
But no caress came back again,
For harder times make harder men.
My thoughts were set on stable rent,
On money saved and money spent,
On weekly bills for forage lost,
And all the old bay hunter cost.
For though a flier in the past,
His days of service long were past,
His gait was stiff, his eyes were dim,
And I could find no use for him.
I turned away with heart of gloom,
And sent for Will, my father's groom,
The old, old groom, whose worn-out face
Was like the fortune of our race.
I gave my order sharp and hard,
“Go, ride him to the knacker's yard;
He'll fetch two pounds, it may be three;
Sell him, and bring the price to me.”
I saw the old groom wince away,
He looked the thoughts he dared not say;
Then from his fob he slowly drew
A leather pouch of faded hue.
“Master,” said he, “my means are small,
This purse of leather holds them all;
But I have neither kith nor kin,
I'll pay your price for Prince's skin.
“My brother rents the Nether Farm,
And he will hold him safe from harm
In the great field where he may graze,
And see the finish of his days.”
With dimming eyes I saw him stand,
Two pounds were in his shaking hand;
I gave a curse to drown the sob,
And thrust the purse within his fob.
“May God do this and more to me
If we should ever part, we three,
Master and horse and faithful friend,
We'll share together to the end!”
You'll think I'm playing it on you,
I give my word the thing is true;
I hadn't hardly made the vow,
Before I heard a view-halloo.
And, looking round, whom should I see,
But Bookie Johnson hailing me;
Johnson, the man who bilked the folks
When Ethelrida won the Oaks.
He drew a wad from out his vest,
“Here are a thousand of the best;
Luck's turned a bit with me of late,
And, as you see, I'm getting straight.”
That's all. My luck was turning too;
If you have nothing else to do,
Run down some day to Lindisfaire,
You'll find the old bay hunter there.
A PARABLE
High-brow House was furnished well
With many a goblet fair;
So when they brought the Holy Grail,
There was never a space to spare.
Simple Cottage was clear and clean,
With room to store at will;
So there they laid the Holy Grail,
And there you'll find it still.
FATE
I know not how I know,
And yet I know.
I do not plan to go,
And yet I go.
There is some dim force propelling,
Gently guiding and compelling,
And a faint voice ever telling
“This is so.”
The path is rough and black—
Dark as night—
And there lies a fairer track
In the light.
Yet I may not shirk or shrink,
For I feel the hands that link
As they guide me on the brink
Of the Height.
Bigots blame me in their wrath.
Let them blame!
Praise or blame, the fated path
Is the same.
If I droop upon my mission,
There is still that saving vision,
Iridescent and Elysian,
Tipped in flame.
It was granted me to stand
By my dead.
I have felt the vanished hand
On my head,
On my brow the vanished lips,
And I know that Death's eclipse
Is a floating veil that slips,
Or is shed.
When I heard thy well-known voice,
Son of mine,
Should I silently rejoice,
Or incline
To strike harder as a fighter,
That the heavy might be lighter,
And the gloomy might be brighter
At the sign?
Great Guide, I ask you still,
“Wherefore I?”
But if it be thy will
That I try,
Trace my pathway among men,
Show me how to strike, and when,
Take me to the fight—and then,
Oh, be nigh!
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury, England.
BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
SONGS OF ACTION
SEVENTH IMPRESSION.
Punch.—“Dr. Conan Doyle has well named his verse ‘Songs of Action.’ It pulsates with life and movement, whether the scenes be laid on sea or land, on ship or horseback.”
The Daily Telegraph.—“There is spirit and animation, the rush and glow of young blood about his poems—always a pulsating sense of life.”
The Yorkshire Post.—“Dr. Conan Doyle writes a good song and a good ballad. He has the requisite amount of pathos, and his humour is spontaneous.”
SONGS OF THE ROAD
The Morning Post.—“A troop of rollicking tales, of fervid exhortations and straightforward arguments … sound sentiments, hearty humour…. The creator of Sherlock Holmes is able to construct vivid and pungent verse.”
The Spectator.—“He can tell a good story as well in verse as in prose: and the fetters of rhyme in no way weaken the merits of the swift tale … humour as well as spirit.”
The Observer.—“The strong vitality of the author pervades his poetry. It is a tonic to meet his frank optimism.”
JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, London, W.1
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JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, London, W.1