Part 2

Waters, who had never thought In his life of others' needs, Has most generously bought A nursing-home for invalids.

And the lady--ah, the lady! She has turned from paths of sin, And her husband's face so shady Now is brightened by a grin.

So misfortunes of to-day Are the blessings of to-morrow, And the wisest cannot say What is joy and what is sorrow.

If your soul is arable You can start this seed within it, And my tiny parable May just help you to begin it.

THE BIGOT

The foolish Roman fondly thought That gods must be the same to all, Each alien idol might be brought Within their broad Pantheon Hall. The vision of a jealous Jove Was far above their feeble ken; They had no Lord who gave them love, But scowled upon all other men.

But in our dispensation bright, What noble progress have we made! We know that we are in the light, And outer races in the shade. Our kindly creed ensures us this-- That Turk and infidel and Jew Are safely banished from the bliss That's guaranteed to me and you.

The Roman mother understood That, if the babe upon her breast Untimely died, the gods were good, And the child's welfare manifest. With tender guides the soul would go And there, in some Elysian bower, The tiny bud plucked here below Would ripen to the perfect flower.

Poor simpleton! Our faith makes plain That, if no blest baptismal word Has cleared the babe, it bears the stain Which faithless Adam had incurred. How philosophical an aim! How wise and well-conceived a plan Which holds the new-born babe to blame For all the sins of early man!

Nay, speak not of its tender grace, But hearken to our dogma wise: Guilt lies behind that dimpled face, And sin looks out from gentle eyes. Quick, quick, the water and the bowl! Quick with the words that lift the load! Oh, hasten, ere that tiny soul Shall pay the debt old Adam owed!

The Roman thought the souls that erred Would linger in some nether gloom, But somewhere, sometime, would be spared To find some peace beyond the tomb. In those dark halls, enshadowed, vast, They flitted ever, sad and thin, Mourning the unforgotten past Until they shed the taint of sin.

And Pluto brooded over all Within that land of night and fear, Enthroned in some dark Judgment Hall, A god himself, reserved, austere. How thin and colourless and tame! Compare our nobler scheme with it, The howling souls, the leaping flame, And all the tortures of the pit!

Foolish half-hearted Roman hell! To us is left the higher thought Of that eternal torture cell Whereto the sinner shall be brought. Out with the thought that God could share Our weak relenting pity sense, Or ever condescend to spare The wretch who gave Him just offence!

'Tis just ten thousand years ago Since the vile sinner left his clay, And yet no pity can he know, For as he lies in hell to-day So when ten thousand years have run Still shall he lie in endless night. O God of Love! O Holy One! Have we not read Thy ways aright?

The godly man in heaven shall dwell, And live in joy before the throne, Though somewhere down in nether hell His wife or children writhe and groan. From his bright Empyrean height He sees the reek from that abyss-- What Pagan ever dreamed a sight So holy and sublime as this!

Poor foolish folk! Had they begun To weigh the myths that they professed, One hour of reason and each one Would surely stand a fraud confessed. Pretending to believe each deed Of Theseus or of Hercules, With fairy tales of Ganymede, And gods of rocks and gods of trees!

No, no, had they our purer light They would have learned some saner tale Of Balaam's ass, or Samson's might, Or prophet Jonah and his whale, Of talking serpents and their ways, Through which our foolish parents strayed, And how there passed three nights and days Before the sun or moon was made!

· · · ·

O Bigotry, you crowning sin! All evil that a man can do Has earthly bounds, nor can begin To match the mischief done by you-- You, who would force the source of love To play your small sectarian part, And mould the mercy from above To fit your own contracted heart.

THE ATHABASCA TRAIL

My life is gliding downwards; it speeds swifter to the day When it shoots the last dark cañon to the Plains of Far-away, But while its stream is running through the years that are to be, The mighty voice of Canada will ever call to me. I shall hear the roar of rivers where the rapids foam and tear, I shall smell the virgin upland with its balsam-laden air, And shall dream that I am riding down the winding woody vale With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.

I have passed the warden cities at the Eastern water-gate Where the hero and the martyr laid the corner stone of State, The habitant, _coureur-des-bois_, and hardy voyageur-- Where lives a breed more strong at need to venture or endure? I have seen the gorge of Erie where the roaring waters run, I have crossed the Inland Ocean, lying golden in the sun, But the last and best and sweetest is the ride by hill and dale With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.

I'll dream again of fields of grain that stretch from sky to sky And the little prairie hamlets where the cars go roaring by, Wooden hamlets as I saw them--noble cities still to be, To girdle stately Canada with gems from sea to sea. Mother of a mighty manhood, land of glamour and of hope, From the eastward sea-swept islands to the sunny western slope, Ever more my heart is with you, ever more till life shall fail I'll be out with pack and packer on the Athabasca Trail.

RAGTIME!

["During the catastrophe the band of the _Titanic_ played negro melodies and ragtime until the last moment, when they broke into a hymn."--DAILY PAPER.]

Ragtime! Ragtime! Keep it going still! Let them hear the ragtime! Play it with a will! Women in the lifeboats, men upon the wreck, Take heart to hear the ragtime lilting down the deck.

Ragtime! Ragtime! Yet another tune! Now the "Darkey Dandy," now "The Yellow Coon!" Brace against the bulwarks if the stand's askew, Find your footing as you can, but keep the music true!

There's glowing hell beneath us where the shattered boilers roar, The ship is listing and awash, the boats will hold no more! There's nothing more that you can do, and nothing you can mend, Only keep the ragtime playing to the end.

Don't forget the time, boys! Eyes upon the score! Never heed the wavelets sobbing down the floor! Play it as you played it when with eager feet A hundred pair of dancers were stamping to the beat.

Stamping to the ragtime down the lamp-lit deck, With shine of glossy linen and with gleam of snowy neck, They've other thoughts to think to-night, and other things to do, But the tinkle of the ragtime may help to see them through.

Shut off, shut off the ragtime! The lights are falling low! The deck is buckling under us! She's sinking by the bow! One hymn of hope from dying hands on dying ears to fall-- Gently the music fades away--and so, God rest us all!

CHRISTMAS IN WARTIME

1916

Cheer oh, comrades, we can bide the blast And face the gloom until it shall grow lighter. What though one Christmas should be overcast, If duty done makes all the others brighter.

1917

THE LAST LAP

We seldom were quick off the mark, And sprinting was never our game; But when it's insistence and hold-for-the-distance, We've never been beat at that same.

The first lap was all to the Hun, At the second we still saw his back; But we knew how to wait and to spurt down the straight, Till we left him dead-beat on the track.

He's a bluffer for all he is worth, But he's winded and done to the core, So the last lap is here, with the tape very near, And the old colours well to the fore.

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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