Songs of Action, Arthur Conan Doyle [english love story books txt] 📗

him. ‘Oh, master, master, is it thus That 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.

 

H.M.S. ‘FOUDROYANT’

 

[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 been

Are 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 hid

The 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 sold

Which 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 stern

As we may be, there still does lie Deep in our hearts a hungry love

For what concerns our island story? We sell our work—perchance our lives,

But not our glory.

Go barter to the knacker’s yard

The steed that has outlived its time! Send hungry to the pauper ward

The 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 more

Our Nelson’s ship.

And if no mooring can be found

In all our harbours near or far, Then tow the old three-decker round

To 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!

THE FARNSHIRE CUP

Christopher Davis was up upon Mavis

And Sammy MacGregor on Flo, Jo Chauncy rode Spider, the rankest outsider,

But HE’D make 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 clay

May 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 shimmer

The 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 birth

In the smile that her owner smiled.’

And the whisper grew and the whisper flew

That 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 guess

That 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 lie

With 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 win

For 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 won

By the Newmarket lad on his back; For the fire of the rider may bring an outsider

Ahead 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 minute

Before 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 pluck

And a courage that never will shirk; To give your mind to it and know how to do it

And 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 what

May have happened to Farmer Brown, And the old gray crock of Isonomy stock

Who 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 stumble

Was heard from her jock that day.

For somebody laid AGAINST the 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.’

 

THE GROOM’S STORY

 

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 day We got the last yard out of ‘im in a most amazin’ way.

It was all along o’ master; which master ‘as the name Of 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’! wot DID ‘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! wot WILL they 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!’