Read Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Online
Authors: SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (1089 page)
It’s up and away from our work to-day,
For the breeze sweeps over the down;
And it’s hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame,
And the bracken is bronzing to brown.
With the turf ‘neath our tread and the blue overhead,
And the song of the lark in the whin;
There’s the flag and the green, with the bunkers between -
Now will you be over or in?
The doctor may come, and we’ll teach him to know
A tee where no tannin can lurk;
The soldier may come, and we’ll promise to show
Some hazards a soldier may shirk;
The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke,
That at last he is high in his aims;
And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand
That is worth every club in St. James’.
The palm and the leather come rarely together,
Gripping the driver’s haft,
And it’s good to feel the jar of the steel
And the spring of the hickory shaft.
Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique?
A cleek here is common to all;
And the lie that might sting is a very small thing
When compared with the lie of the ball.
Come youth and come age, from the study or stage,
From Bar or from Bench — high and low!
A green you must use as a cure for the blues -
You drive them away as you go.
We’re outward bound on a long, long round,
And it’s time to be up and away:
If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow,
At least we’ll be happy to-day.
It came from gettin’ ‘eated, that was ‘ow the thing begun,
And ‘ackin’ back to kennels from a ninety-minute run;
‘I guess I’ve copped brownchitis,’ says I to brother Jack,
An’ then afore I knowed it I was down upon my back.
At night there came a sweatin’ as left me deadly weak,
And my throat was sort of tickly an’ it ‘urt me for to speak;
An’ then there came an ‘ackin’ cough as wouldn’t leave alone,
An’ then afore I knowed it I was only skin and bone
I never was a ‘eavy weight. I scaled at seven four,
An’ rode at eight, or maybe at just a trifle more;
And now I’ll stake my davy I wouldn’t scale at five,
And I’d ‘old my own at catch-weights with the skinniest jock alive.
And the doctor says the reason why I sit an’ cough an wheeze
Is all along o’ varmint, like the cheese-mites in the cheese;
The smallest kind o’ varmint, but varmint all the same,
Microscopes or somethin’ — I forget the varmints’ name.
But I knows as I’m a goner. They never said as much,
But I reads the people’s faces, and I knows as I am such;
Well, there’s ‘Urst to mind the ‘orses and the ‘ounds can look to
Jack,
Though ‘e never was a patch on me in ‘andlin’ of a pack.
You’ll maybe think I’m boastin’, but you’ll find they all agree
That there’s not a whip in Surrey as can ‘andle ‘ounds like me;
For I knew ‘em all from puppies, and I’d tell ‘em without fail -
If I seed a tail a-waggin’, I could tell who wagged the tail.
And voices — why, Lor’ love you, it’s more than I can ‘elp,
It just comes kind of natural to know each whine an’ yelp;
You might take them twenty couple where you will and let ‘em run,
An’ I’d listen by the coverside and name ‘em one by one.
I say it’s kind of natural, for since I was a brat
I never cared for readin’ books, or fancy things like that;
But give me ‘ounds and ‘orses an’ I was quite content,
An’ I loved to ear ‘em talkin’ and to wonder what they meant.
And when the ‘ydrophoby came five year ago next May,
When Nailer was be’avin’ in a most owdacious way,
I fixed ‘im so’s ‘e couldn’t bite, my ‘ands on neck an’ back,
An’ I ‘eaved ‘im from the kennels, and they say I saved the pack.
An’ when the Master ‘eard of it, ‘e up an’ says, says ‘e,
‘If that chap were a soldier man, they’d give ‘im the V.C.’
Which is some kind a’ medal what they give to soldier men;
An’ Master said if I were such I would ‘a’ got it then.
Parson brought ‘is Bible and come to read to me;
‘‘Ave what you like, there’s everythink within this Book,’ says ‘e.
Says I, ‘They’ve left the ‘orses out!’ Says ‘e, ‘You are mistook;’
An’ ‘e up an’ read a ‘eap of things about them from the Book.
And some of it amazin’ fine; although I’m fit to swear
No ‘orse would ever say ‘Ah, ah!’ same as they said it there.
Per’aps it was an ‘Ebrew ‘orse the chap ‘ad in his mind,
But I never ‘eard an English ‘orse say nothin’ of the kind.
Parson is a good ‘un. I’ve known ‘im from a lad;
‘Twas me as taught ‘im ridin’, an’ ‘e rides uncommon bad;
And he says — But ‘ark an’ listen! There’s an ‘orn! I ‘eard it blow;
Pull the blind from off the winder! Prop me up, and ‘old me so.
They’re drawin’ the black ‘anger, just aside the Squire’s grounds.
‘Ark and listen! ‘Ark and listen! There’s the yappin’ of the
‘ounds:
There’s Fanny and Beltinker, and I ‘ear old Boxer call;
You see I wasn’t boastin’ when I said I knew ‘em all.
Let me sit an’ ‘old the bedrail! Now I see ‘em as they pass:
There’s Squire upon the Midland mare, a good ‘un on the grass;
But this is closish country, and you wants a clever ‘orse
When ‘alf the time you’re in the woods an’ ‘alf among the gorse.
‘Ark to Jack a’ollering — a-bleatin’ like a lamb.
You wouldn’t think it now, perhaps, to see the thing I am;
But there was a time the ladies used to linger at the meet
Just to ‘ear me callin’ in the woods: my callin’ was so sweet.
I see the crossroads corner, with the field awaitin’ there,
There’s Purcell on ‘is piebald ‘orse, an’ Doctor on the mare,
And the Master on ‘is iron grey; she isn’t much to look,
But I seed ‘er do clean twenty foot across the ‘eathly brook.
There’s Captain Kane an’ McIntyre an’ ‘alf a dozen more,
And two or three are ‘untin’ whom I never seed afore;
Likely-lookin’ chaps they be, well groomed and ‘orsed and dressed -
I wish they could ‘a seen the pack when it was at its best.
It’s a check, and they are drawin’ down the coppice for a scent,
You can see as they’ve been runnin’, for the ‘orses they are spent;
I’ll lay the fox will break this way, downwind as sure as fate,
An’ if he does you’ll see the field come poundin’ through our gate.
But, Maggie, what’s that slinkin’ beside the cover? — See!
Now it’s in the clover field, and goin’ fast an’ free,
It’s ‘im, and they don’t see ‘im. It’s ‘im! ‘Alloo! ‘Alloo!
My broken wind won’t run to it — I’ll leave the job to you.
There now I ‘ear the music, and I know they’re on his track;
Oh, watch ‘em, Maggie, watch ‘em! Ain’t they just a lovely pack!
I’ve nursed ‘em through distemper, an’ I’ve trained an’ broke ‘em in,
An’ my ‘eart it just goes out to them as if they was my kin.
Well, all things ‘as an endin’, as I’ve ‘eard the parson say,
The ‘orse is cast, an’ the ‘ound is past, an’ the ‘unter ‘as ‘is day;
But my day was yesterday, so lay me down again.
You can draw the curtain, Maggie, right across the winder pane.
Master went a-hunting,
When the leaves were falling;
We saw him on the bridle path,
We heard him gaily calling.
‘Oh master, master, come you back,
For I have dreamed a dream so black!’
A glint of steel from bit and heel,
The chestnut cantered faster;
A red flash seen amid the green,
And so good-bye to master.
Master came from hunting,
Two silent comrades bore him;
His eyes were dim, his face was white,
The mare was led before him.
‘Oh, master, master, is it thus
That you have come again to us?’
I held my lady’s ice-cold hand,
They bore the hurdle past her;
Why should they go so soft and slow?
It matters not to master.
[Being an humble address to Her Majesty’s Naval advisers, who sold
Nelson’s old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]
Who says the Nation’s purse is lean,
Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
Are scheduled as a cash asset?
If times are black and trade is slack,
If coal and cotton fail at last,
We’ve something left to barter yet -
Our glorious past.
There’s many a crypt in which lies hid
The dust of statesman or of king;
There’s Shakespeare’s home to raise a bid,
And Milton’s house its price would bring.
What for the sword that Cromwell drew?
What for Prince Edward’s coat of mail?
What for our Saxon Alfred’s tomb?
They’re all for sale!
And stone and marble may be sold
Which serve no present daily need;
There’s Edward’s Windsor, labelled old,
And Wolsey’s palace, guaranteed.
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these? Just price them, please,
In British pounds.
You hucksters, have you still to learn,
The things which money will not buy?
Can you not read that, cold and stern
As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
For what concerns our island story?
We sell our work — perchance our lives,
But not our glory.
Go barter to the knacker’s yard
The steed that has outlived its time!
Send hungry to the pauper ward
The man who served you in his prime!
But when you touch the Nation’s store,
Be broad your mind and tight your grip.
Take heed! And bring us back once more
Our Nelson’s ship.
And if no mooring can be found
In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.
There let her lie!
Christopher Davis was up upon Mavis
And Sammy MacGregor on Flo,
Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider,
But HE’D make a wooden horse go.
There was Robin and Leah and Boadicea,
And Chesterfield’s Son of the Sea;
And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,
They backed her at seven to three.
The course was the devil! A start on the level,
And then a stiff breather uphill;
A bank at the top with a four-foot drop,
And a bullfinch down by the mill.
A stretch of straight from the Whittlesea gate,
Then up and down and up;
And the mounts that stay through Farnshire clay
May bid for the Farnshire Cup.
The tipsters were touting, the bookies were shouting
’Bar one, bar one, bar one!’
With a glint and a glimmer of silken shimmer
The field shone bright in the sun,
When Farmer Brown came riding down:
’I hain’t much time to spare,
But I’ve entered her name, so I’ll play out the game,
On the back o’ my old gray mare.
‘You never would think ‘er a thoroughbred clinker,
There’s never a judge that would;
Each leg be’ind ‘as a splint, you’ll find,
And the fore are none too good.
She roars a bit, and she don’t look fit,
She’s moulted ‘alf ‘er ‘air;
But—’ He smiled in a way that seemed to say,
That he knew that old gray mare.
And the bookies laughed and the bookies chaffed,
’Who backs the mare?’ cried they.
‘A hundred to one!’ ‘It’s done — and done!’
’We’ll take that price all day.’
‘What if the mare is shedding hair!
What if her eye is wild!
We read her worth and her pedigree birth
In the smile that her owner smiled.’
And the whisper grew and the whisper flew
That she came of Isonomy stock.
‘Fifty to one!’ ‘It’s done — and done!
Look at her haunch and hock!
Ill-groomed! Why yes, but one may guess
That that is her owner’s guile.’
Ah, Farmer Brown, the sharps from town,
Have read your simple smile!
They’ve weighed him in. ‘Now lose or win,
I’ve money at stake this day;
Gee-long, my sweet, and if we’re beat,
We’ll both do all we may!’
He joins the rest, they line abreast,
’Back Leah! Mavis up!’
The flag is dipped and the field is slipped,
Full split for the Farnshire Cup.
Christopher Davis is leading on Mavis,
Spider is waiting on Flo;
Boadicea is gaining on Leah,
Irish Nuneaton lies low;
Robin is tailing, his wind has been failing,
Son of the Sea’s going fast:
So crack on the pace for it’s anyone’s race,
And the winner’s the horse that can last.
Chestnut and bay, and sorrel and gray,
See how they glimmer and gleam!
Bending and straining, and losing and gaining,
Silk jackets flutter and stream;
They are over the grass as the cloud shadows pass,
They are up to the fence at the top;
It’s ‘hey then!’ and over, and into the clover,
There wasn’t one slip at the drop.
They are all going still; they are round by the mill,
They are down by the Whittlesea gate;
Leah’s complaining, and Mavis is gaining,
And Flo’s catching up in the straight.
Robin’s gone wrong, but the Spider runs strong,
He sticks to the leader like wax;
An utter outsider, but look at his rider -
Jo Chauncy, the pick of the cracks!
Robin was tailing and pecked at a paling,
Leah’s gone weak in her feet;
Boadicea came down at the railing,
Son of the Sea is dead beat.
Leather to leather, they’re pounding together,
Three of them all in a row;
And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,
Is level with Spider and Flo.
It’s into the straight from the Whittlesea gate,
Clean galloping over the green,
But four foot high the hurdles lie
With a sunken ditch between.
‘Tis a bit of a test for a beast at its best,
And the devil and all at its worst;
But it’s clear run in with the Cup to win
For the horse that is over it first.
So try it, my beauties, and fly it, my beauties,
Spider, Nuneaton, and Flo;
With a trip and a blunder there’s one of them under,
Hark to it crashing below!
Is it the brown or the sorrel that’s down?
The brown! It is Flo who is in!
And Spider with Chauncy, the pick of the fancy,
Is going full split for a win.
‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’
’He’s winning! He’s winning! Bravo!’
The bookies are raving, the ladies are waving,
The Stand is all shouting for Jo.
The horse is clean done, but the race may be won
By the Newmarket lad on his back;
For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider
Ahead of a thoroughbred crack.
‘Spider is winning!’ ‘Jo Chauncy is winning!’
It swells like the roar of the sea;
But Jo hears the drumming of somebody coming,
And sees a lean head by his knee.
‘Nuneaton! Nuneaton! The Spider is beaten!’
It is but a spurt at the most;
For lose it or win it, they have but a minute
Before they are up with the post.
Nuneaton is straining, Nuneaton is gaining,
Neither will falter nor flinch;
Whips they are plying and jackets are flying,
They’re fairly abreast to an inch.
‘Crack em up! Let ‘em go! Well ridden! Bravo!’
Gamer ones never were bred;
Jo Chauncy has done it! He’s spurted! He’s won it!’
The favourite’s beat by a head!
Don’t tell me of luck, for its judgment and pluck
And a courage that never will shirk;
To give your mind to it and know how to do it
And put all your heart in your work.
So here’s to the Spider, the winning outsider,
With little Jo Chauncy up;
May they stay life’s course, both jockey and horse,
As they stayed in the Farnshire Cup.
But it’s possible that you are wondering what
May have happened to Farmer Brown,
And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock
Who was backed by the sharps from town.
She blew and she sneezed, she coughed and she wheezed,
She ran till her knees gave way.
But never a grumble at trip or at stumble
Was heard from her jock that day.
For somebody laid AGAINST the gray,
And somebody made a pile;
And Brown says he can make farming pay,
And he smiles a simple smile.
‘Them sharps from town were riled,’ says Brown;
’But I can’t see why — can you?
For I said quite fair as I knew that mare,
And I proved my words was true.’