Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (1098 page)

NIGHT VOICE
S

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 MESSAG
E

(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 ECH
O

(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 AUTHO
R

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 ROA
D

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