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    The Poetry of Arthur Conan Doyle
    The Poetry of Arthur Conan Doyle
    The Poetry of Arthur Conan Doyle
    Ebook84 pages40 minutes

    The Poetry of Arthur Conan Doyle

    By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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    About this ebook

    Compiled in one book, the essential collection of poetry by Arthur Conan Doyle

    Table Of Contents
    A Lilt Of The Road
    Corporal Dick's Promotion
    Cremona
    The Farnshire Cup
    The Passing
    THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH
    VICTRIX
    THOSE OTHERS
    HAIG IS MOVING
    THE GUNS IN SUSSEX
    YPRES
    THE VOLUNTEER
    THE NIGHT PATROL
    THE WRECK ON LOCH McGARRY
    THE BIGOT
    THE ATHABASCA TRAIL
    RAGTIME!
    CHRISTMAS IN WARTIME
    THE LAST LAP
    LINDISFAIRE
    A PARABLE
    FATE
    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereBookIt.com
    Release dateApr 26, 2016
    ISBN9781456613983
    The Poetry of Arthur Conan Doyle
    Author

    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1859. Before starting his writing career, Doyle attended medical school, where he met the professor who would later inspire his most famous creation, Sherlock Holmes. A Study in Scarlet was Doyle's first novel; he would go on to write more than sixty stories featuring Sherlock Holmes. He died in England in 1930.

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      Book preview

      The Poetry of Arthur Conan Doyle - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

      The Poetry of Arthur Conan Doyle

      Table Of Contents

      A Lilt Of The Road

      Corporal Dick's Promotion

      Cremona

      The Farnshire Cup

      The Passing

      THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH

      VICTRIX

      THOSE OTHERS

      HAIG IS MOVING

      THE GUNS IN SUSSEX

      YPRES

      THE VOLUNTEER

      THE NIGHT PATROL

      THE WRECK ON LOCH McGARRY

      THE BIGOT

      THE ATHABASCA TRAIL

      RAGTIME!

      CHRISTMAS IN WARTIME

      THE LAST LAP

      LINDISFAIRE

      A PARABLE

      FATE

      A Lilt Of The Road

      Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September, 1908

          To St. Albans' town we came;

          Roman Albanus hence the name.

          Whose shrine commemorates the faith

          Which led him to a martyr's death.

          A high cathedral marks his grave,

          With noble screen and sculptured nave.

          From thence to Hatfield lay our way,

          Where the proud Cecils held their sway,

          And ruled the country, more or less,

          Since the days of Good Queen Bess.

          Next through Hitchin's Quaker hold

          To Bedford, where in days of old

          John Bunyan, the unorthodox,

          Did a deal in local stocks.

          Then from Bedford's peaceful nook

          Our pilgrim's progress still we took

          Until we slackened up our pace

          In Saint Neots' market-place.

          Next day, the motor flying fast,

          Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford passed,

          Until at Doncaster we found

          That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's bound.

          Northward and ever North we pressed,

          The Brontë Country to our West.

          Still on we flew without a wait,

          Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,

          And through a wild and dark ravine,

          As bleak a pass as we have seen,

          Until we slowly circled down

          And settled into Settle town.

          On Sunday, in the pouring rain,

          We started on our way again.

          Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove,

          The weary rain-clouds still above,

          Until at last at Windermere

          We felt our final port was near,

          Thence the lake with wooded beach

          Stretches far as eye can reach.

          There above its shining breast

          We enjoyed our welcome rest.

          Tuesday saw us still in rain —

          Buzzing on our road again.

          Rydal first, the smallest lake,

          Famous for great Wordsworth's sake;

          Grasmere next appeared in sight,

          Grim Helvellyn on the right,

          Till we made our downward way

          To the streets of Keswick gray.

          Then amid a weary waste

          On to Penrith Town we raced,

          And for many a flying mile,

          Past the ramparts of Carlisle,

          Till we crossed the border line

          Of the land of Auld lang syne.

          Here we paused at Gretna Green,

          Where many curious things were seen

          At the grimy blacksmith's shop,

          Where flying couples used to stop

          And forge within the smithy door

          The chain which lasts for evermore.

          They'd soon be back again, I think,

          If blacksmith's skill could break the link.

          Ecclefechan held us next,

          Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed

          By the clamour and the strife

          Of this strange and varied life.

          We saw his pipe, we saw his hat,

          We saw the stone on which he sat.

          The solid stone is resting there,

          But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?

          Over a dreary wilderness

          We had to take our path by guess,

          For Scotland's glories don't include

          The use of signs to mark

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