Songs of Action by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (best authors to read .txt) 📖

a 'eap of things about them from the Book.

And some of it amazin' fine; although I'm fit to swear
No '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 'orse
When '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 meet
Just 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


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 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,