The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSongs of ActionThis 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 atwww.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 ActionAuthor: Arthur Conan DoyleRelease date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4295]Most recently updated: July 22, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ACTION ***
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 atwww.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 ActionAuthor: Arthur Conan DoyleRelease date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4295]Most recently updated: July 22, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: David Price
Title: Songs of Action
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
Release date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4295]Most recently updated: July 22, 2021
Language: English
Credits: David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF ACTION ***
BY A. CONAN DOYLE
AUTHOR OF ‘MICAH CLARKE’ ‘THE WHITE COMPANY’‘RODNEY STONE’ ‘UNCLE BERNAC’ ETC.
SEVENTH IMPRESSION
LONDONJOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.1916
[All rights reserved]
The Song of the Bow
1
Cremona
4
The Storming Party
13
The Frontier Line
18
Corporal Dick’s Promotion
21
A Forgotten Tale
28
Pennarby Mine
31
A Rover Chanty
35
A Ballad of the Ranks
40
A Lay of the Links
46
The Dying Whip
49
Master
61
H.M.S. ‘Foudroyant’
63
The Farnshire Cup
67
The Groom’s Story
77
With the Chiddingfolds
88
A Hunting Morning
91
The Old Gray Fox
96
’Ware Holes
101
The Home-coming of the ‘Eurydice’
105
The Inner Room
109
The Irish Colonel
114
The Blind Archer
115
A Parable
118
A Tragedy
119
The Passing
121
The Franklin’s Maid
131
The Old Huntsman
133
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 bowmen 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 markIs 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 bowmen—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.
[The French Army, including a part of the Irish Brigade, under Marshal Villeroy, held the fortified town of Cremona during the winter of 1702. Prince Eugène, with the Imperial Army, surprised it one morning, and, owing to the treachery of a priest, occupied the whole city before the alarm was given. Villeroy was captured, together with many of the French garrison. The Irish, however, consisting of the regiments of Dillon and of Burke, held a fort commanding the river gate, and defended themselves all day, in spite of Prince Eugène’s efforts to win them over to his cause. Eventually Eugène, being unable to take the post, was compelled to withdraw from the city.]
The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall;The Grenadiers of Austria have scaled the city wall;They have marched from far awayEre the dawning of the day,And the morning saw them masters of Cremona.
There’s not a man to whisper, there’s not a horse to neigh;Of the footmen of Lorraine and the riders of Duprés,They have crept up every street,In the market-place they meet,They are holding every vantage in Cremona.
The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed;The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head;‘I have lost my men!’ quoth he,‘And my men they have lost me,And I sorely fear we both have lost Cremona.’
Prince Eugène of Austria is in the market-place;Prince Eugène of Austria has smiles upon his face;Says he, ‘Our work is done,For the Citadel is won,And the black and yellow flag flies o’er Cremona.’
Major Dan O’Mahony is in the barrack square,And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting for him there;Says he, ‘Come in your shirt,And you won’t take any hurt,For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona.’
Major Dan O’Mahony is at the barrack gate,And just six hundred Irish lads will neither stay nor wait;There’s Dillon and there’s Burke,And there’ll be some bloody workEre the Kaiserlics shall boast they hold Cremona.
Major Dan O’Mahony has reached the river fort,And just six hundred Irish lads are joining in the sport;‘Come, take a hand!’ says he,‘And if you will stand by me,Then it’s glory to the man who takes Cremona!’
Prince Eugène of Austria has frowns upon his face,And loud he calls his Galloper of Irish blood and race:‘MacDonnell, ride, I pray,To your countrymen, and sayThat only they are left in all Cremona!’
MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the river dyke,And he has tied the parley flag upon a sergeant’s pike;Six companies were thereFrom Limerick and Clare,The last of all the guardians of Cremona.
‘Now, Major Dan O’Mahony, give up the river gate,Or, Major Dan O’Mahony, you’ll find it is too late;For when I gallop back’Tis the signal for attack,And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona!’
And Major Dan he laughed: ‘Faith, if what you say be true,And if they will not come until they hear again from you,Then there will be no attack,For you’re never going back,And we’ll keep you snug and safely in Cremona.’
All the weary day the German stormers came,All the weary day they were faced by fire and flame,They have filled the ditch with dead,And the river’s running red;But they cannot win the gateway of Cremona.
All the weary day, again, again, again,The horsemen of Duprés and the footmen of Lorraine,Taafe and Herberstein,And the riders of the Rhine;It’s a mighty price they’re paying for Cremona.
Time and time they came with the deep-mouthed German roar,Time and time they broke like the wave upon the shore;For better men were thereFrom Limerick and Clare,And who will take the gateway of Cremona?
Prince Eugène has watched, and he gnaws his nether lip;Prince Eugène has cursed as he saw his chances slip:‘Call off! Call off!’ he cried,‘It is nearing eventide,And I fear our work is finished in Cremona.’
Says Wauchop to McAulliffe, ‘Their fire is growing slack.’Says Major Dan O’Mahony, ‘It is their last attack;But who will stop the gameWhile there’s light to play the same,And to walk a short way with them from Cremona?’
And so they snarl behind them, and beg them turn and come,They have taken Neuberg’s standard, they have taken Diak’s drum;And along the winding Po,Beard on shoulder, stern and slowThe Kaiserlics are riding from Cremona.
Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the wall;Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call;But what’s the odds of that,For it’s all the same to PatIf he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona.
Says General de Vaudray, ‘You’ve done a soldier’s work!And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of Burke!Ask what you will this day,And be it what it may,It is granted to the heroes of Cremona.’
‘Why, then,’ says Dan O’Mahony, ‘one favour we entreat,We were called a little early, and our toilet’s not complete.We’ve no quarrel with the shirt,But the breeches wouldn’t hurt,For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.’
Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,‘Though the breach is steep and narrow,If we only gain the summitThen it’s odds we hold the fort.I have ten and you have twenty,And the thirty should be plenty,With Henderson and HentyAnd McDermott in support.’
Said Barrow to Leroy,‘It’s a solid job, my boy,For they’ve flanked it, and they’ve banked it,And they’ve bored it with a mine.But it’s only fifty pacesEre we look them in the faces;And the men are in their places,With their toes upon the line.’
Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,‘See that first ray, like an arrow,How it tinges all the fringesOf the sullen drifting skies.They told me to begin itAt five-thirty to the minute,And at thirty-one I’m in it,Or my sub will get his rise.
‘So we’ll wait the signal rocket,Till . . . Barrow, show that locket,That turquoise-studded locket,Which you slipped from out your pocketAnd are pressing with a kiss!Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,It is hers! And I had missed itFrom her chain; and you have kissed it:Barrow, villain, what is this?’
‘Leroy, I had a warning,That my time has come this morning,So I speak with frankness, scorningTo deny the thing that’s true.Yes, it’s Amy’s, is the trinket,Little turquoise-studded trinket,Not her gift—oh, never think it!For her thoughts were all for you.
‘As we danced I gently drew itFrom her chain—she never knew itBut I love her—yes, I love her:I am candid, I confess.But I never told her, never,For I knew ’twas vain endeavour,And she loved you—loved you ever,Would to God she loved you less!’
‘Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!Me, your comrade, to betray me!Well I know that little AmyIs as true as wife can be.She to give this love-badged locket!She had rather . . . Ha, the rocket!Hi, McDougall! Sound the bugle!Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!’
* * * * *
Said Paul Leroy to Amy,‘Well, wifie, you may blame me,For my passion overcame me,When he told me of his shame;But when I saw him lying,Dead amid a ring of dying,Why, poor devil, I was tryingTo forget, and not to blame.
‘And this locket, I unclasped itFrom the fingers that still grasped it:He told me how he got it,How he stole it in a valse.’And she listened leaden-hearted:Oh, the weary day they parted!For she loved him—yes, she loved him—For his youth and for his truth,And for those dying words, so false.
What marks the frontier line?Thou man of India, say!Is it the Himalayas sheer,The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,Or Indus as she seeks the southFrom Attoch to the fivefold mouth?‘Not that! Not that!’Then answer me, I pray!What marks the frontier line?
What marks the frontier line?Thou man of Burmah, speak!Is it traced from Mandalay,And down the marches of Cathay,From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,And where the buried rubies lie?‘Not that! Not that!’Then tell me what I seek:What marks the frontier line?
What marks the frontier line?Thou Africander, say!Is it shown by Zulu kraal,By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,Or where the Shiré waters seekTheir outlet east at Mozambique?‘Not that! Not that!There is a surer wayTo mark the frontier line.’
What marks the frontier line?Thou man of Egypt, tell!Is it traced on Luxor’s sand,Where Karnak’s painted pillars stand,Or where the river runs betweenThe Ethiop and Bishareen?‘Not that! Not that!By neither stream nor wellWe mark the frontier line.
‘But be it east or west,One common sign we bear,The tongue may change, the soil, the sky,But where your British brothers lie,The lonely cairn, the nameless grave,Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave.’Tis that! ’Tis whereTheylie—the men who placed it there,That marks the frontier line.’
The Eastern day was well-nigh o’erWhen, parched with thirst and travel sore,Two of McPherson’s flanking corpsAcross the Desert were tramping.They had wandered off from the beaten trackAnd now were wearily harking back,Ever staring round for the signal jackThat marked their comrades camping.
The one was Corporal Robert Dick,Bearded and burly, short and thick,Rough of speech and in temper quick,A hard-faced old rapscallion.The other, fresh from the barrack square,Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fairHalf grown, half drilled, with the weedy airOf a draft from the home battalion.
Weary and parched and hunger-torn,They had wandered on from early morn,And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn,Now stumbling and now falling.Around the orange sand-curves lay,Flecked with boulders, black or grey,Death-silent, save that far awayA kite was shrilly calling.
A kite? Wasthata kite? The yellThat shrilly rose and faintly fell?No kite’s, and yet the kite knows wellThe long-drawn wild halloo.And right athwart the evening skyThe yellow sand-spray spurtled high,And shrill and shriller swelled the cryOf ‘Allah! Allahu!’
The Corporal peered at the crimson West,Hid his pipe in his khaki vest.Growled out an oath and onward pressed,Still glancing over his shoulder.‘Bedouins, mate!’ he curtly said;‘We’ll find some work for steel and lead,And maybe sleep in a sandy bed,Before we’re one hour older.
‘But just one flutter before we’re done.Stiffen your lip and stand, my son;We’ll take this bloomin’ circus on:Ball-cartridge load! Now, steady!’With a curse and a prayer the two faced round,Dogged and grim they stood their ground,And their breech-blocks snapped with a crisp clean soundAs the rifles sprang to the ‘ready.’
Alas for the Emir Ali Khan!A hundred paces before his clan,That ebony steed of the prophet’s breedIs the foal of death and of danger.A spurt of fire, a gasp of pain,A blueish blurr on the yellow plain,The chief was down, and his bridle reinWas in the grip of the stranger.
With the light of hope on his rugged face,The Corporal sprang to the dead man’s place,One prick with the steel, one thrust with the heel,And where was the man to outride him?A grip of his knees, a toss of his rein,He was settling her down to her gallop again,When he stopped, for he heard just one faltering wordFrom the young recruit beside him.
One faltering word from pal to pal,But it found the heart of the Corporal.He had sprung to the sand, he had lent him a hand,‘Up, mate! They’ll be ’ere in a minute;Off with you! No palaver! Go!I’ll bide be’ind and run this show.Promotion has been cursed slow,And this is my chance to win it.’
Into the saddle he thrust him quick,Spurred the black mare with a bayonet prick.Watched her gallop with plunge and with kickAway o’er the desert careering.Then he turned with a softened face,And loosened the strap of his cartridge-case,While his thoughts flew back to the dear old placeIn the sunny Hampshire clearing.
The young boy-private, glancing back,Saw the Bedouins’ wild attack,And heard the sharp Martini crack.But as he gazed, alreadyThe fierce fanatic Arab bandWas closing in on every hand,Until one tawny swirl of sand,Concealed them in its eddy.
* * * * *
A squadron of British horse that night,Galloping hard in the shadowy light,Came on the scene of that last stern fight,And found the Corporal lyingSilent and grim on the trampled sand,His rifle grasped in his stiffened hand,With the warrior pride of one who died’Mid a ring of the dead and the dying.
And still when twilight shadows fall,After the evening bugle call,In bivouac or in barrack-hall,His comrades speak of the Corporal,His death and his devotion.And there are some who like to sayThat perhaps a hidden meaning layIn the words he spoke, and that the dayWhen his rough bold spirit passed awayWasthe day that he won promotion.
[The scene of this ancient fight, recorded by Froissart, is still called ‘Altura de los Inglesos.’ Five hundred years later Wellington’s soldiers were fighting on the same ground.]
‘Say, what saw you on the hill,Campesino Garcia?’‘I saw my brindled heifer there,A trail of bowmen, spent and bare,And a little man on a sorrel mareRiding slow before them.’
‘Say, what saw you in the vale,Campesino Garcia?’‘There I saw my lambing eweAnd an army riding through,Thick and brave the pennons flewFrom the lances o’er them.’
‘Then what saw you on the hill,Campesino Garcia?’‘I saw beside the milking byre,White with want and black with mire,The little man with eyes afireMarshalling his bowmen.’
‘Then what saw you in the vale,Campesino Garcia?’‘There I saw my bullocks twain,And amid my uncut grainAll the hardy men of SpainSpurring for their foemen.’
‘Nay, but there is more to tell,Campesino Garcia!’‘I could not bide the end to view;I had graver things to doTending on the lambing eweDown among the clover.’
‘Ah, but tell me what you heard,Campesino Garcia!’‘Shouting from the mountain-side,Shouting until eventide;But it dwindled and it diedEre milking time was over.’
‘Nay, but saw you nothing more,Campesino Garcia?’‘Yes, I saw them lying there,The little man and sorrel mare;And in their ranks the bowmen fair,With their staves before them.’
‘And the hardy men of Spain,Campesino Garcia?’‘Hush! but we are Spanish too;More I may not say to you:May God’s benison, like dew,Gently settle o’er them.’
Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.Stout the bucket and tough the cord,Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.‘Never look down!Stick to the line!’That was the saying at Pennarby mine.
A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.Lord, to see how the miners laughed!White in the collar and stiff in the hat,With his patent boots and his silk cravat,Picking his way,Dainty and fine,Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.
Touring from London, so he said.Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?Where did they find it? How did it come?If he tried with a shovel mightheget some?Stooping so muchWas bad for the spine;And wasn’t it warmish in Pennarby mine?
’Twas like two worlds that met that day—The world of work and the world of play;And the grimy lads from the reeking shaftNudged each other and grinned and chaffed.‘Got ’em all out!’‘A cousin of mine!’So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.
And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,Told him the facts about the pit:How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smellWarned them off from tapping—well,He wouldn’t say what,But they took it as signTo dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.
Then leaning over and peering in,He was pointing out what he said was tinIn the ten-foot lode—a crash! a jar!A grasping hand and a splintered bar.Gone in his strength,With the lips that laughed—Oh, the pale faces round Pennarby shaft!
Far down on a narrow ledge,They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.‘Wait for the bucket! Hi, man! Stay!That rope ain’t safe! It’s worn away!He’s taking his chance,Slack out the line!Sweet Lord be with him!’ cried Pennarby mine.
‘He’s got him! He has him! Pull with a will!Thank God! He’s over and breathing still.And he—Lord’s sakes now! What’s that? Well!Blowed if it ain’t our London swell.Your heart is rightIf your coatisfine:Give us your hand!’ cried Pennarby mine.
A trader sailed from Stepney town—Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the mainsail!A trader sailed from Stepney townWith a keg full of gold and a velvet gown:Ho, the bully rover Jack,Waiting with his yard abackOut upon the Lowland sea!
The trader he had a daughter fair—Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the foresailThe trader he had a daughter fair,She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair:All for bully rover Jack,Waiting with his yard aback,Out upon the Lowland sea!
‘Alas the day, oh daughter mine!’—Shake her up! Wake her up! Try her with the topsail!‘Alas the day, oh daughter mine!Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!’Ho, the bully rover Jack,Reaching on the weather tack,Out upon the Lowland sea!
‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden cried—Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the jibsail!‘A fearsome flag!’ the maiden cried,But comelier men I never have spied!’Ho, the bully rover Jack,Reaching on the weather tack,Out upon the Lowland sea!
There’s a wooden path that the rovers know—Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the headsails!There’s a wooden path that the rovers know,Where none come back, though many must go:Ho, the bully rover Jack,Lying with his yard aback,Out upon the Lowland sea!
Where is the trader of Stepney town?—Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stick a-bending!Where is the trader of Stepney town?There’s gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown:Ho for bully rover Jack,Waiting with his yard aback,Out upon the Lowland sea!
Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?—Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stitch a-drawing!Where is the maiden who knelt at his side?We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride:Ho, the bully rover Jack,Reaching on the weather tack,Right across the Lowland sea!
So it’s up and its over to Stornoway Bay,Pack it on! Crack it on! Try her with the stunsails!It’s off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay,Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay:Waiting for their bully Jack,Watching for him sailing back,Right across the Lowland sea.
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 that 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 fighting’s to be done,Come one, come all, you stand or fallBy the man who holds 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 that 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 lass,And each can choose the one,But east and west we claim the bestFor the man that carries the gun.
Who carries the gun?A lad from the hills of Wales.Then let him go, for well we know,That 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 men,And 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 son,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 know,We’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 holds the gun.
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 knowA tee where no tannin can lurk;The soldier may come, and we’ll promise to showSome 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 handThat 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 steelAnd 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 thingWhen 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 wheezeIs 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 agreeThat 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 bratI 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 swearNo ’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 ’orseWhen ’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 meetJust 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 thusThat 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 beenAre 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 hidThe 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 soldWhich 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 sternAs we may be, there still does lieDeep in our hearts a hungry loveFor what concerns our island story?We sell our work—perchance our lives,But not our glory.
Go barter to the knacker’s yardThe steed that has outlived its time!Send hungry to the pauper wardThe 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 moreOur Nelson’s ship.
And if no mooring can be foundIn all our harbours near or far,Then tow the old three-decker roundTo 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 MavisAnd Sammy MacGregor on Flo,Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider,Buthe’dmake 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 clayMay 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 shimmerThe 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 birthIn the smile that her owner smiled.’
And the whisper grew and the whisper flewThat 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 guessThat 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 lieWith 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 winFor 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 wonBy the Newmarket lad on his back;For the fire of the rider may bring an outsiderAhead 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 minuteBefore 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 pluckAnd a courage that never will shirk;To give your mind to it and know how to do itAnd 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 whatMay have happened to Farmer Brown,And the old gray crock of Isonomy stockWho 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 stumbleWas heard from her jock that day.
For somebody laidagainstthe 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.’
Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it, sir. That’s true.The big bay ’orse in the further stall—the one wot’s next to you.I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss,But ’e ’olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us.
We knew as it wa’s in ’im. ’E’s thoroughbred, three part,We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e ’ad no ’eart;For ’e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified,It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to ride;
For ’e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what ’e ’ad to do,But ’is thoughts was set on ’igher things, admirin’ of the view.’E looked a puffeck pictur, and a pictur ’e would stay,’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the flies away.
And yet we knew ’twas in ’im, we knew as ’e could fly;But what we couldn’t git at was ’ow to make ’im try.We’d almost turned the job up, until at last one dayWe got the last yard out of ’im in a most amazin’ way.
It was all along o’ master; which master ’as the nameOf a reg’lar true blue sportman, an’ always acts the same;But we all ’as weaker moments, which master ’e ’ad one,An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.
I seed it in the stable yard—it fairly turned me sick—A greasy, wheezy engine as can neither buck nor kick.You’ve a screw to drive it forrard, and a screw to make it stop,For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred in a blacksmith shop.
It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t ask no groom,It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’ standin’ room.Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go all day,Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave my way.
Well, master took ’is motor-car, an’ moted ’ere an’ there,A frightenin’ the ’orses an’ a poisonin’ the air.’E wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap, but Lor’! wotdid’e know,Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?
An’ then one day it wouldn’t go. ’E screwed and screwed again,But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e stuck in the mud of a country lane.It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what was ’e to do?So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to pull the motor through.
This was the ’orse we fetched ’im; an’ when we reached the car,We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,And buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to each side,While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so ’aughtily, an’ looked most dignified.
Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,And ’e seemed to say, ‘Well, bli’ me! wotwillthey ask me next?I’ve put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,To be assistant engine to a crocky motor-car!’
Well, master ’e was in the car, a-fiddlin’ with the gear,And the ’orse was meditatin’, an’ I was standin’ near,When master ’e touched somethin’—what it was we’ll never know—But it sort o’ spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.
‘’Old ’ard, old gal!’ says master, and ‘Gently then!’ says I,But an engine won’t ’eed coaxin’ an’ it ain’t no use to try;So first ’e pulled a lever, an’ then ’e turned a screw,But the thing kept crawlin’ forrard spite of all that ’e could do.
And first it went quite slowly and the ’orse went also slow,But ’e ’ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;For the car kept crowdin’ on ’im and buttin’ ’im along,And in less than ’alf a minute, sir, that ’orse was goin’ strong.
At first ’e walked quite dignified, an’ then ’e ’ad to trot,And then ’e tried a canter when the pace became too ’ot.’E looked ’is very ’aughtiest, as if ’e didn’t ’e mind,And all the time the motor-car was pushin’ ’im be’ind.
Now, master lost ’is ’ead when ’e found ’e couldn’t stop,And ’e pulled a valve or somethin’ an’ somethin’ else went pop,An’ somethin’ else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less,That blessed car was goin’ like a limited express.
Master ’eld the steerin’ gear, an’ kept the road all right,And away they whizzed and clattered—my aunt! it was a sight.’E seemed the finest draught ’orse as ever lived by far,For all the country Juggins thought ’twas ’im wot pulled the car.
’E was stretchin’ like a grey’ound, ’e was goin’ all ’e knew;But it bumped an’ shoved be’ind ’im, for all that ’e could do;It butted ’im an’ boosted ’im an’ spanked ’im on a’ead,Till ’e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.
Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it, sir. That’s true.The only time we ever found what that ’ere ’orse could do.Some say it wasn’t ’ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,But ’e broke the ten-mile record, and that’s good enough for us.
You see that ’orse’s tail, sir? You don’t! No more do we,Which really ain’t surprisin’, for ’e ’as no tail to see;That engine wore it off ’im before master made it stop,And all the road was littered like a bloomin’ barber’s shop.
And master? Well, it cured ’im. ’E altered from that day,And come back to ’is ’orses in the good old-fashioned way.And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by farIs to ’int as ’ow you think ’e ought to keep a motor-car.