The Guards Came Through, and Other Poems

by Arthur Conan Doyle

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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