The Irish Colonel

Said the king to the colonel,
'The complaints are eternal,
That you Irish give more trouble
Than any other corps.'

Said the colonel to the king,
'This complaint is no new thing,
For your foemen, sire, have made it
A hundred times before.'

Arthur Conan Doyle

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a British writer and physician, famous for creating the detective Sherlock Holmes. He was born on May 22, 1859, in Edinburgh, Scotland, and died on July 7, 1930. Although best known for his Holmes series, Doyle was a versatile author who wrote in various genres, including science fiction, historical novels, and plays. Doyle was also involved in politics and was an advocate for spiritualism. His works greatly influenced different literary genres, making him one of the most significant literary figures of his time.

Arthur Conan Doyle

1902-1909

Arthur Conan Doyle, Simple Poetry

Sir Nigel's Song

Arthur Conan Doyle, Simple Poetry

The Inner Room

Arthur Conan Doyle, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Ballad Of The Ranks

Who carries the gun?
A lad from over the Tweed.
Then let him go, for well we know
He comes of a soldier breed.
So drink together to rock and heather,
Out where the red deer run,
And stand aside for Scotland's pride -
The man that carries the gun!
For the Colonel rides before,
The Major's on the flank,
The Captains and the Adjutant
Are in the foremost rank.
But when it's 'Action front!'
And fighting's to be done,
Come one, come all, you stand or fall
By the man who holds the gun.

Who carries the gun?
A lad from a Yorkshire dale.
Then let him go, for well we know
The heart that never will fail.
Here's to the fire of Lancashire,
And here's to her soldier son!
For the hard-bit north has sent him forth -
The lad that carries...

Arthur Conan Doyle

Lieutenant-Colonel Flare

The earth has armies plenty,
And semi-warlike bands,
I dare say there are twenty
In European lands;
But, oh! in no direction
You'd find one to compare
In brotherly affection
With that of COLONEL FLARE.

His soldiers might be rated
As military Pearls.
As unsophisticated
As pretty little girls!
They never smoked or ratted,
Or talked of Sues or Polls;
The Sergeant-Major tatted,
The others nursed their dolls.

He spent his days in teaching
These truly solemn facts;
There's little use in preaching,
Or circulating tracts.
(The vainest plan invented
For stifling other creeds,
Unless it's supplemented
With charitable DEEDS.)

He taught his soldiers kindly
To give at Hunger's call:
"Oh, better far give bl...

William Schwenck Gilbert

Empire Builders

Captain Temple, D.S.O.,
With his banjo and retriever.
"Rough, I know, on poor old Flo,
But, by Jove! I couldn't leave her."
Niger ribbon on his breast,
In his blood the Niger fever,
Captain Temple, D.S.O.,
With his banjo and retriever.

Cox of the Politicals,
With his cigarette and glasses,
Skilled in Pushtoo gutturals,
Odd-job man among the Passes,
Keeper of the Zakka Khels,
Tutor of the Khaiber Ghazis,
Cox of the Politicals,
With his cigarette and glasses.

Mr. Hawkins, Junior Sub.,
Late of Woolwich and Thames Ditton,
Thinks his battery the hub
Of the whole wide orb of Britain.
Half a hero, half a cub,
Lithe and playful as a kitten,
Mr. Hawkins, Junior Sub.,
Late of Woolwich and Thames Ditton.

Eighty To...

Arthur Conan Doyle

O'Brien Of Ara.[1]

Air--The Piper of Blessington.


I.

Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh^[2]--
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh^[3]--
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain^[4] of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,^[5]
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


II.

See you the mountains look huge at eve--
So is our chieftain in battle--
Welcome he has for the fugitive,--
Uisce-beatha^[6] fighting, and cattle!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte
Gossip and ally are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.


III.

Horses the...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Dublin At Dawn.

In the chill grey summer dawn-light
    We pass through the empty streets;
The rattling wheels are all silent;
    No friend his fellow greets.

Here and there, at the corners,
    A man in a great-coat stands;
A bayonet hangs by his side, and
    A rifle is in his hands.

This is a conquered city;
    It speaks of war not peace;
And that's one of the English soldiers
    The English call "police."

You see, at the present moment
    That noble country of mine
Is boiling with indignation
    At the memory of a "crime."

In a path in the Phoenix Park where
    The children romped and ran,
An Irish ruffian met his doom,
    And an English gentleman.

For a hundred and over a hundred
    Years on the country side<...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

The Frontier Line

What marks the frontier line?
Thou man of India, say!
Is it the Himalayas sheer,
The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,
Or Indus as she seeks the south
From Attoch to the fivefold mouth?
'Not that! Not that!'
Then answer me, I pray!
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
Thou man of Burmah, speak!
Is it traced from Mandalay,
And down the marches of Cathay,
From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,
And where the buried rubies lie?
'Not that! Not that!'
Then tell me what I seek:
What marks the frontier line?

What marks the frontier line?
Thou Africander, say!
Is it shown by Zulu kraal,
By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,
Or where the Shire waters seek
Their outlet east at Mozambique?
'Not that! Not that!

Arthur Conan Doyle