Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (1101 page)
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Authors: SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
BOOK: Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)
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“The army swore terribly in Flanders.”
Uncle Toby.
What do the soldiers say?
“Dam! Dam! Dam!
I don’t mind cold, I don’t mind heat,
Over the top for a Sunday treat,
With Fritz I’ll always take my spell,
But I want my grub, and where in hell
Is the jam?”
What does the officer say?
“Dam! Dam! Dam!
Mud and misery, flies and stench,
Piggin’ it here in a beastly trench,
But what I mean, by Jove, you see,
I like my men and they don’t mind me,
So, on the whole, I’d rather be
Where I am.”
What does the enemy say?
“Kolossal Verdam!
They told me, when the war began,
The British Tommy always ran,
And so he does, just as they said,
But, Donnerwetter! it’s straight ahead,
Like a ram.”
What does the public say?
“Dam! Dam! Dam!
They tax me here, they tax me there,
Bread is dear and the cupboard bare,
I’m bound to grouse, but if it’s the way
To win the war, why then I’ll pay
Like a lamb.”
(1914–1919)
The dreams are passed and gone, old man,
That came to you and me,
Of a six days’ stunt on an east coast front,
And the Hun with his back to the sea.
Lord, how we worked and swotted sore
To be fit when the day should come!
Four years, my lad, and five months more,
Since first we followed the drum.
Though “Follow the drum” is a bit too grand,
For we ran to no such frills;
It was just the whistles of Nature’s band
That heartened us up the hills.
That and the toot of the corporal’s flute,
Until he could blow no more,
And the lilt of “Sussex by the Sea,”
The marching song of the corps.
Those hills! My word, you would soon get fit,
Be you ever so stale and slack,
If you pad it with rifle and marching kit
To Rotherfield Hill and back!
Drills in hall, and drills outdoors,
And drills of every type,
Till we wore our boots with forming fours,
And our coats with “Shoulder hipe!”
No glory ours, no swank, no pay,
One dull eventless grind;
Find yourself, and nothing a day
Were the terms that the old boys signed.
Just drill and march and drill again,
And swot at the old parade,
But they got two hundred thousand men.
Not bad for the old brigade!
A good two hundred thousand came,
On the chance of that east coast fight;
They may have been old and stiff and lame,
But, by George, their hearts were right!
Discipline! My! “Eyes right!” they cried,
As we passed the drill hall door,
And left it at that — so we marched cock-eyed
From three to half-past four.
And solid! Why, after a real wet bout
In a hole in the Flanders mud,
It would puzzle the Boche to fetch us out,
For we couldn’t get out if we would!
Some think we could have stood war’s test,
Some say that we could not,
But a chap can only do his best,
And offer all he’s got.
Fall out, the guard! The old home guard!
Pile arms! Right turn! Dismiss!
No grousing, even if it’s hard
To break our ranks like this.
We can’t show much in the way of fun
For four and a half years gone;
If we’d had our chance — just one! just one! —
Carry on, old Sport, carry on!
September 1918
Behind me on the darkened pier
They crowd and chatter, man and maid,
A coon-song gently strikes the ear,
A flapper giggles in the shade.
There where the in-turned lantern gleams
It shines on khaki and on brass;
Across its yellow slanting beams
The arm-locked lovers slowly pass.
Out in the darkness one far light
Throbs like a pulse, and fades away —
Some signal on the guarded Wight,
From Helen’s Point to Bembridge Bay.
An eastern wind blows chill and raw,
Cheerless and black the waters lie,
And as I gaze athwart the haze,
I see the night patrol go by.
Creeping shadows blur the gloom,
Thicken and darken, pass and fade;
Again and yet again they loom,
One ruby spark above each shade —
Twelve ships in all! They glide so near,
One hears the wave the fore-foot curled,
And yet to those upon the pier
They seem some other sterner world.
The coon-song whimpers to a wail,
The treble laughter sinks and dies,
The lovers cluster on the rail,
With whispered words and straining eyes.
One hush of awe, and then once more
The vision fades for them and me,
And there is laughter on the shore,
And silent duty on the sea.
If you should search all Scotland round,
The mainland, skerries, and the islands,
A grimmer spot could not be found
Than Loch McGarry in the Highlands.
Pent in by frowning mountains high,
It stretches silent as the tomb,
Turbid and thick its waters lie,
No eye can pierce their yellow gloom.
‘Twas here that on a summer day
Four tourists hired a crazy wherry.
No warning voices bade them stay,
As they pushed out on Loch McGarry.
McFarlane, Chairman of the Board,
A grim hard-fisted son of lucre,
His thoughts were ever on his hoard,
And life a money-game, like Euchre.
Bob Ainslie, late of London Town,
A spruce young butterfly of fashion,
A wrinkle in his dressing-gown
Would rouse an apoplectic passion.
John Waters, John the self-absorbed,
With thoughts for ever inward bent,
Complacent, self-contained, self-orbed,
Wrapped in eternal self-content.
Lastly coquettish Mrs. Wild,
Chattering, rowdy, empty-headed;
At sight of her the whole world smiled,
Except the wretch whom she had wedded.
Such were the four who sailed that day,
To the Highlands each a stranger;
Sunlit and calm the wide loch lay,
With not a hint of coming danger.
Drifting they watched the heather hue,
The waters and the cliffs that bound them;
The air was still, the sky was blue,
Deceitful peace lay all around them.
McFarlane pondered on the stocks,
John Waters on his own perfection,
Bob Ainslie’s thoughts were on his socks,
And Mrs. Wild’s on her complexion.
When sudden — oh, that dreadful scream!
That cry from panic fear begotten!
The boat is gaping in each seam,
The worn-out planks are old and rotten.
With two small oars they work and strain,
A long mile from the nearer shore
They cease — their efforts are in vain;
She’s sinking fast, and all is o’er.
The yellow water, thick as pap,
Is crawling, crawling to the thwarts,
And as they mark its upward lap,
So fear goes crawling up their hearts.
Slowly, slowly, thick as pap,
The creeping yellow waters rise;
Like drowning mice within a trap,
They stare around with frantic eyes.
Ah, how clearly they could see
Every sin and shame and error!
How they vowed that saints they’d be,
If delivered from this terror!
How they squirmed and how they squealed!
How they shouted for assistance!
How they fruitlessly appealed
To the shepherds in the distance!
How they sobbed and how they moaned,
As the waters kept encroaching!
How they wept and stormed and groaned,
As they saw their fate approaching!
And they vowed each good resolve
Should be permanent as granite,
Never, never, to dissolve,
Firm and lasting like our planet.
See them sit, aghast and shrinking!
Surely it could not be true!
“Oh, have mercy! Oh, we’re sinking!
Oh, good Lord, what
shall
we do!”
Ah, it’s coming! Now she founders!
See the crazy wherry reel!
Downward to the rocks she flounders —
Just one foot beneath her keel!
In the shallow, turbid water
Lay the saving reef below.
Oh, the waste of high emotion!
Oh, the useless fear and woe!
Late that day four sopping tourists
To their quarters made their way,
And the brushes of Futurists
Scarce could paint their disarray.
And with half-amused compassion
They were viewed from the hotel,
From the pulp-clad beau of fashion,
To the saturated belle.
But a change was in their features,
And that change has come to tarry,
For they all are altered creatures
Since the wreck of Loch McGarry.
Now McFarlane never utters
Any talk of bills or bullion,
But continually mutters
Texts from Cyril or Tertullian.
As to Ainslie, he’s not caring
How the new-cut collar lies,
And has been detected wearing
Dinner-jackets with white ties.
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.
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