DOYLE
What of the bow?The bow was made in England:Of true wood, of yew-wood,The wood of English bows;So men who are freeLove the old yew-treeAnd the land where the yew-tree grows.What of the cord?The cord was made in England:A rough cord, a tough cord,A cord that bow-men love;And so we will singOf the hempen stringAnd the land where the cord was wove.What of the shaft?The shaft was cut in England:A long shaft, a strong shaft,Barbed and trim and true;So we’ll drink all togetherTo the grey goose-featherAnd the land where the grey goose flew.What of the mark?Ah, seek it not in England,A bold mark, our old mark,Is waiting over-sea.When the strings harp in chorus,And the lion flag is o’er us,It is there that our mark will be.What of the men?The men were bred in England;The bow-men—the yeomen,The lads of dale and fell.Here’s to you—and to you!To the hearts that are trueAnd the land where the true hearts dwell!Arthur Conan Doyle.
What of the bow?The bow was made in England:Of true wood, of yew-wood,The wood of English bows;So men who are freeLove the old yew-treeAnd the land where the yew-tree grows.What of the cord?The cord was made in England:A rough cord, a tough cord,A cord that bow-men love;And so we will singOf the hempen stringAnd the land where the cord was wove.What of the shaft?The shaft was cut in England:A long shaft, a strong shaft,Barbed and trim and true;So we’ll drink all togetherTo the grey goose-featherAnd the land where the grey goose flew.What of the mark?Ah, seek it not in England,A bold mark, our old mark,Is waiting over-sea.When the strings harp in chorus,And the lion flag is o’er us,It is there that our mark will be.What of the men?The men were bred in England;The bow-men—the yeomen,The lads of dale and fell.Here’s to you—and to you!To the hearts that are trueAnd the land where the true hearts dwell!Arthur Conan Doyle.
What of the bow?The bow was made in England:Of true wood, of yew-wood,The wood of English bows;So men who are freeLove the old yew-treeAnd the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord?The cord was made in England:A rough cord, a tough cord,A cord that bow-men love;And so we will singOf the hempen stringAnd the land where the cord was wove.
What of the shaft?The shaft was cut in England:A long shaft, a strong shaft,Barbed and trim and true;So we’ll drink all togetherTo the grey goose-featherAnd the land where the grey goose flew.
What of the mark?Ah, seek it not in England,A bold mark, our old mark,Is waiting over-sea.When the strings harp in chorus,And the lion flag is o’er us,It is there that our mark will be.
What of the men?The men were bred in England;The bow-men—the yeomen,The lads of dale and fell.Here’s to you—and to you!To the hearts that are trueAnd the land where the true hearts dwell!
Arthur Conan Doyle.
Who carries the gun?A lad from over the Tweed.Then let him go, for well we knowHe comes of a soldier breed.So drink together to rock and heather,Out where the red deer run,And stand aside for Scotland’s pride—The man who carries the gun!For the Colonel rides before,The Major’s on the flank,The Captains and the AdjutantAre in the foremost rank.But when it’s ‘Action front!’And there’s fighting to be done,Come one, come all, you stand or fallBy the man who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from a Yorkshire dale.Then let him go, for well we knowThe heart that never will fail.Here’s to the fire of Lancashire,And here’s to her soldier son!For the hard-bit North has sent him forth—The lad who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from a Midland shire.Then let him go, for well we knowHe comes of an English sire.Here’s a glass to a Midland lassAnd each can choose the one,But East and West we claim the bestFor the man who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from the hills of Wales.Then let him go, for well we knowThat Taffy is hard as nails.There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells,And of w’s more than one,With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good menAnd it’s they who carry the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from the windy West.Then let him go, for well we knowThat he is one of the best.There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,And Devon yields to none.Or you may get in SomersetYour lad to carry the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from London town.Then let him go, for well we knowThe stuff that never backs down.He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,For he is the fog-smoke’s sun,And his heart is light, and his pluck is right—The man who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from the Emerald Isle.Then let him go, for well we knowWe’ve tried him many a while.We’ve tried him East, we’ve tried him West,We’ve tried him sea and land,But the man to beat old Erin’s bestHas never yet been planned.Who carries the gun?It’s you, and you, and you;So let us go, and we won’t say noIf they give us a job to do.Here we stand with a cross-linked hand,Comrades every one;So one last cup, and drink it upTo the man who carries the gun?For the Colonel rides before,The Major’s on the flank,The Captains and the AdjutantAre in the foremost rank.And when it’s ‘Action front!’And there’s fighting to be done,Come one, come all, you stand or fallBy the man who carries the gun.Arthur Conan Doyle.
Who carries the gun?A lad from over the Tweed.Then let him go, for well we knowHe comes of a soldier breed.So drink together to rock and heather,Out where the red deer run,And stand aside for Scotland’s pride—The man who carries the gun!For the Colonel rides before,The Major’s on the flank,The Captains and the AdjutantAre in the foremost rank.But when it’s ‘Action front!’And there’s fighting to be done,Come one, come all, you stand or fallBy the man who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from a Yorkshire dale.Then let him go, for well we knowThe heart that never will fail.Here’s to the fire of Lancashire,And here’s to her soldier son!For the hard-bit North has sent him forth—The lad who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from a Midland shire.Then let him go, for well we knowHe comes of an English sire.Here’s a glass to a Midland lassAnd each can choose the one,But East and West we claim the bestFor the man who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from the hills of Wales.Then let him go, for well we knowThat Taffy is hard as nails.There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells,And of w’s more than one,With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good menAnd it’s they who carry the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from the windy West.Then let him go, for well we knowThat he is one of the best.There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,And Devon yields to none.Or you may get in SomersetYour lad to carry the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from London town.Then let him go, for well we knowThe stuff that never backs down.He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,For he is the fog-smoke’s sun,And his heart is light, and his pluck is right—The man who carries the gun.Who carries the gun?A lad from the Emerald Isle.Then let him go, for well we knowWe’ve tried him many a while.We’ve tried him East, we’ve tried him West,We’ve tried him sea and land,But the man to beat old Erin’s bestHas never yet been planned.Who carries the gun?It’s you, and you, and you;So let us go, and we won’t say noIf they give us a job to do.Here we stand with a cross-linked hand,Comrades every one;So one last cup, and drink it upTo the man who carries the gun?For the Colonel rides before,The Major’s on the flank,The Captains and the AdjutantAre in the foremost rank.And when it’s ‘Action front!’And there’s fighting to be done,Come one, come all, you stand or fallBy the man who carries the gun.Arthur Conan Doyle.
Who carries the gun?A lad from over the Tweed.Then let him go, for well we knowHe comes of a soldier breed.So drink together to rock and heather,Out where the red deer run,And stand aside for Scotland’s pride—The man who carries the gun!
For the Colonel rides before,The Major’s on the flank,The Captains and the AdjutantAre in the foremost rank.But when it’s ‘Action front!’And there’s fighting to be done,Come one, come all, you stand or fallBy the man who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?A lad from a Yorkshire dale.Then let him go, for well we knowThe heart that never will fail.Here’s to the fire of Lancashire,And here’s to her soldier son!For the hard-bit North has sent him forth—The lad who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?A lad from a Midland shire.Then let him go, for well we knowHe comes of an English sire.Here’s a glass to a Midland lassAnd each can choose the one,But East and West we claim the bestFor the man who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?A lad from the hills of Wales.Then let him go, for well we knowThat Taffy is hard as nails.There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells,And of w’s more than one,With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good menAnd it’s they who carry the gun.
Who carries the gun?A lad from the windy West.Then let him go, for well we knowThat he is one of the best.There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough,And Devon yields to none.Or you may get in SomersetYour lad to carry the gun.
Who carries the gun?A lad from London town.Then let him go, for well we knowThe stuff that never backs down.He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,For he is the fog-smoke’s sun,And his heart is light, and his pluck is right—The man who carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?A lad from the Emerald Isle.Then let him go, for well we knowWe’ve tried him many a while.We’ve tried him East, we’ve tried him West,We’ve tried him sea and land,But the man to beat old Erin’s bestHas never yet been planned.
Who carries the gun?It’s you, and you, and you;So let us go, and we won’t say noIf they give us a job to do.Here we stand with a cross-linked hand,Comrades every one;So one last cup, and drink it upTo the man who carries the gun?
For the Colonel rides before,The Major’s on the flank,The Captains and the AdjutantAre in the foremost rank.And when it’s ‘Action front!’And there’s fighting to be done,Come one, come all, you stand or fallBy the man who carries the gun.
Arthur Conan Doyle.