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 G.o.d 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 s.p.a.ce 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