Songs of Action - Arthur Conan Doyle (graded readers TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">Up with the royals that top the white spread of her!

Press her and dress her, and drive through the foam; The Island’s to port, and the mainland ahead of her,

Hey for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just look at the green of it!

Look at the red cattle down by the hedge! Look at the farmsteading—all that is seen of it,

One little gable end over the edge!’

‘Lord! the tongues of them clattering, clattering,

All growing wild at a peep of the Wight; Aye, sir, aye, it has set them all chattering,

Thinking of home and their mothers to-night.’

Spread the topgallants—oh, lay them out lustily!

What though it darken o’er Netherby Combe? ‘Tis but the valley wind, puffing so gustily -

On for the Warner and Hayling and Home!

‘Bo’sun, O Bo’sun, just see the long slope of it!

Culver is there, with the cliff and the light. Tell us, oh tell us, now is there a hope of it?

Shall we have leave for our homes for to-night?’

‘Tut, the clack of them! Steadily! Steadily!

Aye, as you say, sir, they’re little ones still; One long reach should open it readily,

Round by St. Helens and under the hill.

‘The Spit and the Nab are the gates of the promise,

Their mothers to them—and to us it’s our wives. I’ve sailed forty years, and—By God it’s upon us!

Down royals, Down top’sles, down, down, for your lives!’

A grey swirl of snow with the squall at the back of it,

Heeling her, reeling her, beating her down! A gleam of her bends in the thick of the wrack of it,

A flutter of white in the eddies of brown.

It broke in one moment of blizzard and blindness;

The next, like a foul bat, it flapped on its way. But our ship and our boys! Gracious Lord, in your kindness,

Give help to the mothers who need it to-day!

Give help to the women who wait by the water,

Who stand on the Hard with their eyes past the Wight. Ah! whisper it gently, you sister or daughter,

‘Our boys are all gathered at home for to-night.’

THE INNER ROOM

It is mine—the little chamber,

Mine alone. I had it from my forbears

Years agone. Yet within its walls I see A most motley company, And they one and all claim me

As their own.

There’s one who is a soldier

Bluff and keen; Single-minded, heavy-fisted,

Rude of mien. He would gain a purse or stake it, He would win a heart or break it, He would give a life or take it,

Conscience-clean.

And near him is a priest

Still schism-whole; He loves the censer-reek

And organ-roll. He has leanings to the mystic, Sacramental, eucharistic; And dim yearnings altruistic

Thrill his soul.

There’s another who with doubts

Is overcast; I think him younger brother

To the last. Walking wary stride by stride, Peering forwards anxious-eyed, Since he learned to doubt his guide

In the past.

And ‘mid them all, alert,

But somewhat cowed, There sits a stark-faced fellow,

Beetle-browed, Whose black soul shrinks away From a lawyer-ridden day, And has thoughts he dare not say

Half avowed.

There are others who are sitting,

Grim as doom, In the dim ill-boding shadow

Of my room. Darkling figures, stern or quaint, Now a savage, now a saint, Showing fitfully and faint

Through the gloom.

And those shadows are so dense,

There may be Many—very many—more

Than I see. They are sitting day and night Soldier, rogue, and anchorite; And they wrangle and they fight

Over me.

If the stark-faced fellow win,

All is o’er! If the priest should gain his will

I doubt no more! But if each shall have his day, I shall swing and I shall sway In the same old weary way

As before.

THE IRISH COLONEL

Said the king to the colonel, ‘The complaints are eternal,

That you Irish give more trouble

Than any other corps.’

Said the colonel to the king, ‘This complaint is no new thing,

For your foemen, sire, have made it

A hundred times before.’

THE BLIND ARCHER

Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,

Shooting down at the ballroom floor; He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,

And oh! but he wounded her sore.

‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?’

No word would he say,

But he flew on his way, For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay?

Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport

At the soberest club in Pall Mall; He winged an old veteran drinking his port,

And down that old veteran fell.

‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?

This cannot be right!

It’s ludicrous quite!’ But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of sight.

A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart

Was planning a celibate vow; But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart,

And the cell is an empty one now.

‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?

He is not for you,

He has duties to do.’ ‘But I AM his duty,’ quoth Love as he flew.

The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped

For a queen without rival or peer. But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped

With Miss No-one on Nothing a year.

‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?

What an impudent thing

To make game of a king!’ ‘But I’M a king also,’ cried Love on the wing.

Little boy Love grew pettish one day;

‘If you keep on complaining,’ he swore, ‘I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away,

And so I shall plague you no more.’

‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!

Hi, Love, what would you be at?

You may ruin our ease,

You may do what you please, But we can’t do without you, you dear little tease!’

A PARABLE

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,

And warmly debated the matter; The Orthodox said that it came from the air,

And the Heretics said from the platter. They argued it long and they argued it strong,

And I hear they are arguing now; But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,

Not one of them thought of a cow,

A TRAGEDY

Who’s that walking on the moorland?

Who’s that moving on the hill? They are passing ‘mid the bracken, But the shadows grow and blacken

And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

Who’s that calling on the moorland?

Who’s that crying on the hill? Was it bird or was it human, Was it child, or man, or woman,

Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

Who’s that running on the moorland?

Who’s that flying on the hill? He is there—and there again, But you cannot see him plain,

For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.

What’s that lying in the heather?

What’s that lurking on the hill? My horse will go no nearer, And I cannot see it clearer,

But there’s something that is lying on the hill.

THE PASSING

It was the hour of dawn,

When the heart beats thin and small, The window glimmered grey,

Framed in a shadow wall.

And in the cold sad light

Of the early morningtide, The dear dead girl came back

And stood by his bedside.

The girl he lost came back:

He saw her flowing hair; It flickered and it waved

Like a breath in frosty air.

As in a steamy glass,

Her face was dim and blurred; Her voice was sweet and thin,

Like the calling of a bird.

‘You said that you would come,

You promised not to stay; And I have waited here,

To help you on the way.

‘I have waited on,

But still you bide below; You said that you would come,

And oh, I want you so!

‘For half my soul is here,

And half my soul is there, When you are on the earth

And I am in the air.

‘But on your dressing-stand

There lies a triple key; Unlock the little gate

Which fences you from me.

‘Just one little pang,

Just one throb of pain, And then your weary head

Between my breasts again.’

In the dim unhomely light

Of the early morningtide, He took the triple key

And he laid it by his side.

A pistol, silver chased,

An open hunting knife, A phial of the drug

Which cures the ill of life.

He looked upon the three,

And sharply drew his breath: ‘Now help me, oh my love,

For I fear this cold grey death.’

She bent her face above,

She kissed him and she smiled; She soothed him as a mother

May sooth a frightened child.

‘Just that little pang, love,

Just a throb of pain, And then your weary head

Between my breasts again.’

He snatched the pistol up,

He pressed it to his ear; But a sudden sound broke in,

And his skin was raw with fear.

He took the hunting knife,

He tried to raise the blade; It glimmered cold and white,

And he was sore afraid.

He poured the potion out,

But it was thick and brown; His throat was sealed against it,

And he could not drain it down.

He looked to her for help,

And when he looked—behold! His love was there before him

As in the days of old.

He saw the drooping head,

He saw the gentle eyes; He saw the same shy grace of hers

He had been wont to prize.

She pointed and she smiled,

And lo! he was aware Of a half-lit bedroom chamber

And a silent figure there.

A silent figure lying

A-sprawl upon a bed, With a silver-mounted pistol

Still clotted to his head.

And as he downward gazed,

Her voice came full and clear, The homely tender voice

Which he had loved to hear:

‘The key is very certain,

The door is sealed to none. You did it, oh, my darling!

And you never knew it done.

‘When the net was broken,

You thought you felt its mesh; You carried to the spirit

The troubles of the flesh.

‘And are you trembling still, dear?

Then let me take your hand; And I will lead you outward

To a sweet and restful land.

‘You know how once in London

I put my griefs on you; But I can carry yours now -

Most sweet it is to do!

‘Most sweet it is to do, love,

And very sweet to plan How I, the helpless woman,

Can help the helpful man.

‘But let me see you smiling

With the smile I know so well; Forget the world of shadows,

And the empty broken shell.

‘It is the worn-out garment

In which you tore a rent; You tossed it down, and carelessly

Upon your way you went.

‘It is not YOU, my sweetheart,

For you are here with me. That frame was but the promise of

The thing that was to be -

‘A tuning of the choir

Ere the harmonies begin; And yet it is the image

Of the subtle thing within.

‘There’s not a trick of body,

There’s not a trait of mind, But you bring it over with you,

Ethereal, refined,

‘But still the same; for surely

If we alter as we die, You would be you no longer,

And I would not be I.

‘I might be an angel,

But not the girl you knew; You might be immaculate,

But that would not be you.

‘And now I see you smiling,

So, darling, take my hand; And I will lead you outward

To a sweet and pleasant land,

‘Where thought is clear and nimble,

Where life is pure and fresh, Where