Arthur Conan Doyle Poems That he is one of the best. Norwegian Explorer Study Group There's Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough, 21 June 2014 And Devon yields to none. Text Unverified Or you may get in Somerset Your lad to carry the gun. A Ballad of the Ranks Who carries the gun? Who carries the gun? A lad from London town. A lad from over the Tweed. Then let him go, for well we know Then let him go, for well we know The stuff that never backs down. He comes of a soldier breed. He has learned to joke at the powder smoke, So drink together to rock and heather, For he is the fog-smoke's son, Out where the red deer run, And his heart is light and his pluck is right— And stand aside for Scotland's pride— The man who carries the gun. The man that carries the gun! Who carries the gun? For the Colonel rides before, A lad from the Emerald Isle. The Major's on the flank, Then let him go, for well we know, The Captains and the Adjutant We've tried him many a while. Are in the foremost rank. We've tried him east, we've tried him west, But when it's 'Action front!' We've tried him sea and land, And fighting's to be done, But the man to beat old Erin's best Come one, come all, you stand or fall Has never yet been planned. By the man who holds the gun. Who carries the gun? Who carries the gun? It's you, and you, and you; A lad from a Yorkshire dale. So let us go, and we won't say no Then let him go, for well we know If they give us a job to do. The heart that never will fail. Here we stand with a cross-linked hand, Here's to the fire of Lancashire, Comrades every one; And here's to her soldier son! So one last cup, and drink it up For the hard-bit north has sent him forth— To the man who carries the gun! The lad that carries the gun. For the Colonel rides before, Who carries the gun? The Major's on the flank, A lad from a Midland shire. The Captains and the Adjutant Then let him go, for well we know Are in the foremost rank. He comes of an English sire. And when it's 'Action front!' Here's a glass to a Midland lass, And there's fighting to be done, And each can choose the one, Come one, come all, you stand or fall But east and west we claim the best By the man who holds the gun. For the man that carries the gun. Those Others Who carries the gun? Where are those others?—the men who stood A lad from the hills of Wales. In the first wild spate of the German flood, Then let him go, for well we know, And paid full price with their heart's best blood That Taffy is hard as nails. For the saving of you and me: There are several ll's in the place where he dwells, French's Contemptibles, haggard and lean, And of w's more than one, Allenby's lads of the cavalry screen, With a 'Llan' and a 'pen,' but it breeds good men, Gunners who fell in Battery L, And it's they who carry the gun. And Guardsmen of Landrecies?

Who carries the gun? Where are those others who fought and fell, A lad from the windy west. Outmanned, outgunned and scant of shell, Then let him go, for well we know On the deadly curve of the Ypres hell, 1 Barring the coast to the last? A cord that bowmen love; Where are our laddies who died out there, And so we will sing From Poelcapelle to Festubert, Of the hempen string When the days grew short and the poplars bare And the land where the cord was wove. In the cold November blast? What of the shaft? For us their toil and for us their pain, The shaft was cut in England: The sordid ditch in the sodden plain, A long shaft, a strong shaft, The Flemish fog and the driving rain, Barbed and trim and true; The cold that cramped and froze; So we’ll drink all together The weary night, the chill bleak day, To the grey goose-feather When earth was dark and sky was grey, And the land where the grey goose flew. And the ragged weeds in the dripping clay Were all God's world to those. What of the mark? Ah, seek it not in England: Where are those others in this glad time, A bold mark, our old mark When the standards wave and the joy-bells chime, Is waiting over-sea. And London stands with outstretched hands When the strings harp in chorus, Waving her children in? And the lion flag is o’er us, Athwart our joy still comes the thought It is there that our mark will be. Of the dear dead boys, whose lives have bought All that sweet victory has brought What of the men? To us who lived to win. The men were bred in England: The bowmen—the yeomen, To each his dreams, and mine to me, The lads of dale and fell. But as the shadows fall I see Here’s to you—and to you! That ever-glorious company— To the hearts that are true The men who bide out there. And the land where the true hearts dwell. Rifleman, Highlander, Fusilier, Airman and Sapper and Grenadier, The Franklin’s Maid With flaunting banner and wave and cheer, They flow through the darkening air. The franklin he hath gone to roam,

The franklin's maid she bides at home, And yours are there, and so are mine, But she is cold and coy and staid, Rank upon rank and line on line, And who may win the franklin's maid? With smiling lips and eyes that shine, And bearing proud and high. Past they go with their measured tread, There came a knight of high renown These are the victors, these—the dead! In bassinet and ciclatoun; Ah, sink the knee and bare the head On bended knee full long he prayed, As the hallowed host goes by! He might not win the franklin's maid.

The Song of the Bow There came a squire so debonair His dress was rich, his words were fair, What of the bow? He sweetly sang, he deftly played: The bow was made in England: He could not win the franklin's maid. Of true wood, of yew-wood, The wood of English bows; There came a mercer wonder-fine So men who are free With velvet cap and gaberdine; Love the old yew-tree For all his ships, for all his trade And the land where the yew-tree grows. He could not buy the franklin's maid.

What of the cord? There came an archer bold and true, The cord was made in England: With bracer guard and stave of yew; A rough cord, a tough cord, 2 His purse was light, his jerkin frayed; Swift he bore it from below, Haro, alas! the franklin's maid! Hastened to the studio, Where with anxious eyes he studied Oh, some have laughed and some have cried If the ruin, blotched and muddied, And some have scoured the country-side! Could by any human skill But off they ride through wood and glade, Be made a normal picture still. The bowman and the franklin's maid. Thus in most repentant mood A Post-Impressionist Unhappy Peter Wilson stood, When, with pompous face, self-centred, Peter Wilson, A.R.A., Willoughby the critic entered — In his small atelier, He of whom it has been said Studied Continental Schools, He lives a century ahead — Drew by Academic rules. And sees with his prophetic eye So he made his bid for fame, The forms which Time will justify, But no golden answer came, A fact which surely must abate For the fashion of his day All longing to reincarnate. Chanced to set the other way, And decadent forms of Art "Ah, Wilson," said the famous man, Drew the patrons of the mart. Turning himself the walls to scan, "The same old style of thing I trace, Now this poor reward of merit Workmanlike but commonplace. Rankled so in Peter's spirit, Believe me, sir, the work that lives It was more than he could bear; Must furnish more than Nature gives. So one night in mad despair 'The light that never was,' you know, He took his canvas for the year That is your mark but here, hullo! ("Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier"), And he hurled it from his sight, What's this? What's this? Magnificent! Hurled it blindly to the night, I've wronged you, Wilson! I repent! Saw it fall diminuendo A masterpiece! A perfect thing! From the open lattice window, What atmosphere! What colouring! Till it landed with a flop Spanish Armada, is it not? On the dust-bin's ashen top, A view of Ryde, no matter what, Where, 'mid damp and rain and grime, I pledge my critical renown It remained till morning time. That this will be the talk of Town. Where did you get those daring hues, Then when morning brought reflection, Those blues on reds, those reds on He was shamed at his dejection, blues? And he thought with consternation That pea-green face, that gamboge sky? Of his poor, ill-used creation; You've far outcried the latest cry— Down he rushed, and found it there Out Monet-ed Monet. I have said Lying all exposed and bare, Our Art was sleeping, but not dead. Mud-bespattered, spoiled, and botched, Long have we waited for the Star, Water sodden, fungus-blotched, I watched the skies for it afar, All the outlines blurred and wavy, The hour has come—and here you are." All the colours turned to gravy, Fluids of a dappled hue, And that is how our artist friend Blues on red and reds on blue, Found his struggles at an end, A pea-green mother with her daughter, And from his little Chelsea flat Crazy boats on crazy water Became the Park Lane plutocrat. Steering out to who knows what, 'Neath his sheltered garden wall An island or a lobster-pot? When the rain begins to fall, And the stormy winds do blow, Oh, the wretched man's despair! You may see them in a row, Was it lost beyond repair? Red effects and lake and yellow 3 Getting nicely blurred and mellow. The third was a gift or it looked it- With the subtle gauzy mist A foot off the wicket or so; Of the great Impressionist. His huge figure swooped as he hooked it, Ask him how he chanced to find His great body swung to the blow. How to leave the French behind, And he answers quick and smart, Still when my dreams are night-marish, "English climate's best for Art." I picture that terrible smite, It was meant for a neighboring parish, A Reminiscence of Cricket Or any place out of sight.

Once in my heyday of cricket, But - yes, there's a but to the story- One day I shall ever recall! The blade swished a trifle too low; I captured that glorious wicket, Oh wonder, and vision of glory! The greatest, the grandest of all. It was up like a shaft from a bow.

Before me he stands like a vision, Up, up like a towering game bird, Bearded and burly and brown, Up, up to a speck in the blue, A smile of good humoured derision And then coming down like the same bird, As he waits for the first to come down. Dead straight on the line that it flew.

A statue from Thebes or from Knossos, Good Lord, it was mine! Such a soarer A Hercules shrouded in white, Would call for a safe pair of hands; Assyrian bull-like colossus, None safer than Derbyshire Storer, He stands in his might. And there, face uplifted, he stands

With the beard of a Goth or a Vandal, Wicket keep Storer, the knowing, His bat hanging ready and free, Wary and steady of nerve, His great hairy hands on the handle, Watching it falling and growing And his menacing eyes upon me. Marking the pace and curve.

And I - I had tricks for the rabbits, I stood with my two eyes fixed on it, The feeble of mind or eye, Paralysed, helpless, inert; I could see all the duffer's bad habits There was 'plunk' as the gloves shut upon it, And where his ruin might lie. And he cuddled it up to his shirt.

The capture of such might elate one, Out - beyond question or wrangle! But it seemed like one horrible jest Homeward he lurched to his lunch! That I should serve tosh to the great one, His bat was tucked up at an angle, Who had broken the hearts of the best. His great shoulders curved to a hunch.

Well, here goes! Good Lord, what a rotter! Walking he rumbled and grumbled, Such a sitter as never was dreamt; Scolding himself and not me; It was clay in the hands of the potter, One glove was off, and he fumbled, But he tapped it with quiet contempt. Twisting the other hand free

The second was better - a leetle; Did I give Storer the credit It was low, but was nearly long-hop; The thanks he so splendidly earned? As the housemaid comes down on the beetle It was mere empty talk if I said it, So down came the bat with a chop. For Grace had already returned.

He was sizing me up with some wonder, My broken-kneed action and ways; I could see the grim menace from under The striped peak that shaded his gaze.

4 The Inner Room And those shadows are so dense, There may be It is mine—the little chamber, Many—very many—more Mine alone. Than I see. I had it from my forbears They are sitting day and night Years agone. Soldier, rogue, and anchorite; Yet within its walls I see And they wrangle and they fight A most motley company, Over me. And they one and all claim me As their own. If the stark-faced fellow win, All is o'er! There's one who is a soldier If the priest should gain his will Bluff and keen; I doubt no more! Single-minded, heavy-fisted, But if each shall have his day, Rude of mien. I shall swing and I shall sway He would gain a purse or stake it, In the same old weary way He would win a heart or break it, As before. He would give a life or take it, Conscience-clean. The Banner of Progress

And near him is a priest There's a banner in our van, Still schism-whole; And we follow as we can, He loves the censer-reek For at times we scarce can see it, And organ-roll. And at times it flutters high. He has leanings to the mystic, But however it be flown, Sacramental, eucharistic; Still we know it as our own, And dim yearnings altruistic And we follow, ever follow, Thrill his soul. Where we see the banner fly.

There's another who with doubts In the struggle and the strife, Is overcast; In the weariness of life, I think him younger brother The banner-man may stumble, To the last. He may falter in the fight. Walking wary stride by stride, But if one should fail or slip, Peering forwards anxious-eyed, There are other hands to grip, Since he learned to doubt his guide And it's forward, ever forward, In the past. From the darkness to the light.

And 'mid them all, alert, Bendy’s Sermon But somewhat cowed, There sits a stark-faced fellow, [Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prizefighter, Beetle-browed, became converted to religion, and preached at revival Whose black soul shrinks away meetings throughout the country.] From a lawyer-ridden day, And has thoughts he dare not say You didn't know of Bendigo! Well, that knocks me out! Half avowed. Who's your board school teacher? What's he been about? Chock-a-block with fairy-tales - full of useless cram, There are others who are sitting, And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham! Grim as doom, In the dim ill-boding shadow Bendy's short for Bendigo. You should see him peel! Of my room. Half of him was whalebone, half of him was steel; Darkling figures, stern or quaint, Fightin' weight eleven-ten, five foot nine in height, Now a savage, now a saint, Always ready to oblige if you want a fight. Showing fitfully and faint Through the gloom. 5 I could talk of Bendigo from here to kingdom come, Till a workin' man he shouted out, a-jumpin' to his feet, I guess before I ended you would wish your dad was dumb; "Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave 'em in the street." I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and how the deaf 'un fell, But the game is done, and the men are gone - and maybe it's Then Bendy said, "Good Lord, since first I left my sinful ways, as well. Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've given up my days, But now, dear Lord " - and here he laid his Bible on the shelf, Bendy he turned Methodist - he said he felt a call, "I'll take with your permission, just five minutes for myself." He stumped the country preaching and you bet he filled the hall; He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger from a den, If you seed him in the pulpit, a bleatin' like a lamb, They say it was a lovely sight to see him floor his men; You'd never know bold Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham. Right and left, and left and right, straight and true and hard, Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like a knacker's yard. His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a waiter's coat, With a hallelujah collar and a choker round his throat; Platt was standin' on his back and lookin' at his toes, His pals would laugh and say in chaff, that Bendigo was right Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for his nose, In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one else to fight. Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he could do Rakin' for his ivories that lay about the pew. But he was very earnest, improvin' day by day, A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty lay; Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith was in a peaceful sleep, But the devil he was waiting and in the final bout Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up in a heap; He hit him hard below his guard and knocked poor Bendy out. Five of them was twisted in a tangle on the floor, And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, had sprinted for the door. Now I'll tell you how it happened. He was preachin' down at Brum, Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a row, He was billed just like a circus, you should see the people Listenin' to words of grace from Mister Bendigo, come; Listenin' to his reverence - all as good as gold, The chapel it was crowded, and in the foremost row Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the fold. There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a grudge at Bendigo. So that's the way that Bendy ran his mission in the slum, There was Tommy Platt of Bradford, Solly Jones of Perry Bar, And preached the Holy Gospel to the fightin' men of Brum, Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the same wot drew with Carr, "The Lord," said he, "has given me His message from on high, Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith, Joe Murphy from the Mews, And if you interrupt Him, I will know the reason why." And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the Champion of the Jews. But to think of all your schooling clean wasted, thrown away, A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a string, Darned if I can make out what you're learnin' all the day, Full of beer and impudence, ripe for anything, Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with cram, Sittin' in a string there, right under Bendy's nose, And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham! If his message was for sinners, he could make a start on those.

Soon he heard them chaffin': "Hi, Bendy! Here's a go!" "How much are you coppin' by this Jump to Glory show?" "Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring! Mighty spry of you! Didn't everybody know the ring was leavin' you?"

Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above and prayed, "Look down, O Lord, and grip me with a strangle-hold!" he said. "Fix me with a strangle-hold! Put a stop on me! I'm slipping Lord, I'm slipping and I'm clinging' hard to Thee!"

But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and the uproar it was such That the preacher in the pulpit might be talkin' double Dutch,

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