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.

May 22, 1859

July 7, 1930

English

Arthur Conan Doyle

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'Ware Holes

[''Ware Holes!' is the expression used in the hunting-field to warn those behind against rabbit-burrows or other suck dangers.]

A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.

They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.

They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased 'im up to Kirdford town.

From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.

Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came s...

Arthur Conan Doyle

1902-1909

They recruited William Evans
From the ploughtail and the spade;
Ten years' service in the Devons
Left him smart as they are made.

Thirty or a trifle older,
Rather over six foot high,
Trim of waist and broad of shoulder,
Yellow-haired and blue of eye;

Short of speech and very solid,
Fixed in purpose as a rock,
Slow, deliberate, and stolid,
Of the real West-country stock.

He had never been to college,
Got his teaching in the corps,
You can pick up useful knowledge
'Twixt Saltash and Singapore.

Old Field-Cornet Piet van Celling
Lived just northward of the Vaal,
And he called his white-washed dwelling,
Blesbock Farm, Rhenoster Kraal.

In his politics unbending,
Stern of speech and grim of face,
He pursued ...

Arthur Conan Doyle

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

A Forgotten Tale

[The scene of this ancient fight, recorded by Froissart, is still called 'Altura de los Inglesos.' Five hundred years later Wellington's soldiers were fighting on the same ground.]

'Say, what saw you on the hill,
Campesino Garcia?'
'I saw my brindled heifer there,
A trail of bowmen, spent and bare,
And a little man on a sorrel mare
Riding slow before them.'

'Say, what saw you in the vale,
Campesino Garcia?'
'There I saw my lambing ewe
And an army riding through,
Thick and brave the pennons flew
From the lances o'er them.'

'Then what saw you on the hill,
Campesino Garcia?'
'I saw beside the milking byre,
White with want and black with mire,
The little man with eyes afire
Marshalling his bowmen.'

'Then what saw you in the v...

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Hunting Morning

Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,
And autumn all below.
For the red leaves are flying
And the red bracken dying,
And the red fox lying
Where the oziers grow.

Put the bridle on the mare,
For my blood runs chill;
And my heart, it is there,
On the heather-tufted hill,
With the gray skies o'er us,
And the long-drawn chorus
Of a running pack before us
From the find to the kill.

Then lead round the mare,
For it's time that we began,
And away with thought and care,
Save to live and be a man,
While the keen air is blowing,
And the huntsman holloing,
And the black mare going
As the black mare can.

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Hymn Of Empire

(Coronation Year, 1911)


God save England, blessed by Fate,
So old, yet ever young:
The acorn isle from which the great
Imperial oak has sprung!
And God guard Scotland's kindly soil,
The land of stream and glen,
The granite mother that has bred
A breed of granite men!

God save Wales, from Snowdon's vales
To Severn's silver strand!
For all the grace of that old race
Still haunts the Celtic land.
And, dear old Ireland, God save you,
And heal the wounds of old,
For every grief you ever knew
May joy come fifty-fold!

Set Thy guard over us,
May Thy shield cover us,
Enfold and uphold us
On land and on sea!
From the palm to the pine,
From the snow to the line,
Brothers together
And children of Thee.
<...

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Lay Of The Links

It's up and away from our work to-day,
For the breeze sweeps over the down;
And it's hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame,
And the bracken is bronzing to brown.
With the turf 'neath our tread and the blue overhead,
And the song of the lark in the whin;
There's the flag and the green, with the bunkers between -
Now will you be over or in?

The doctor may come, and we'll teach him to know
A tee where no tannin can lurk;
The soldier may come, and we'll promise to show
Some hazards a soldier may shirk;
The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke,
That at last he is high in his aims;
And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand
That is worth every club in St. James'.

The palm and the leather come rarely together,
Gripping the driv...

Arthur Conan Doyle

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 pa...

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Parable

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow,

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Post-Impressionist

Peter Wilson, A.R.A.,
In his small atelier,
Studied Continental Schools,
Drew by Academic rules.
So he made his bid for fame,
But no golden answer came,
For the fashion of his day
Chanced to set the other way,
And decadent forms of Art
Drew the patrons of the mart.

Now this poor reward of merit
Rankled so in Peter's spirit,
It was more than he could bear;
So one night in mad despair
He took his canvas for the year
("Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier"),
And he hurled it from his sight,
Hurled it blindly to the night,
Saw it fall diminuendo
From the open lattice window,
Till it landed with a flop
On the dust-bin's ashen top,
Where, 'mid damp and rain and grime,
It remained till morning time.

Then when morning br...

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Rover Chanty

A trader sailed from Stepney town -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the mainsail!
A trader sailed from Stepney town
With a keg full of gold and a velvet gown:
Ho, the bully rover Jack,
Waiting with his yard aback
Out upon the Lowland sea!

The trader he had a daughter fair -
Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the foresail
The trader he had a daughter fair,
She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair:
All for bully rover Jack,
Waiting with his yard aback,
Out upon the Lowland sea!

'Alas the day, oh daughter mine!' -
Shake her up! Wake her up! Try her with the topsail!
'Alas the day, oh daughter mine!
Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!'
Ho, the bully rover Jack,
Reaching on the weather tack,
Out upon the Lowland ...

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Tragedy

Who's that walking on the moorland?
Who's that moving on the hill?
They are passing 'mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

Who's that calling on the moorland?
Who's that crying on the hill?
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

Who's that running on the moorland?
Who's that flying on the hill?
He is there--and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,
For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.

What's that lying in the heather?
What's that lurking on the hill?
My horse will go no nearer,
And I cannot see it clearer,
But there's something that is lying on the hill.

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Voyage

1909

Breathing the stale and stuffy air
Of office or consulting room,
Our thoughts will wander back to where
We heard the low Atlantic boom,

And, creaming underneath our screw,
We watched the swirling waters break,
Silver filagrees on blue
Spreading fan-wise in our wake.

Cribbed within the city's fold,
Fettered to our daily round,
We'll conjure up the haze of gold
Which ringed the wide horizon round.

And still we'll break the sordid day
By fleeting visions far and fair,
The silver shield of Vigo Bay,
The long brown cliff of Finisterre.

Where once the Roman galley sped,
Or Moorish corsair spread his sail,
By wooded shore, or sunlit head,
By barren hill or sea-washed vale

We took our way. But we can sw...

Arthur Conan Doyle

A Woman's Love

I am not blind I understand;
I see him loyal, good, and wise,
I feel decision in his hand,
I read his honour in his eyes.
Manliest among men is he
With every gift and grace to clothe him;
He never loved a girl but me —
And I I loathe him! loathe him!

The other! Ah! I value him
Precisely at his proper rate,
A creature of caprice and whim,
Unstable, weak, importunate.
His thoughts are set on paltry gain —
You only tell me what I see —
I know him selfish, cold and vain;
But, oh! he's all the world to me!

Arthur Conan Doyle

Advice To A Young Author

First begin
Taking in.
Cargo stored,
All aboard,
Think about
Giving out.
Empty ship,
Useless trip!

Never strain
Weary brain,
Hardly fit,
Wait a bit!
After rest
Comes the best.

Sitting still,
Let it fill;
Never press;
Nerve stress
Always shows.
Nature knows.

Critics kind,
Never mind!
Critics flatter,
No matter!
Critics curse,
None the worse.
Critics blame,
All the same!
Do your best.
Hang the rest!

Arthur Conan Doyle

Bendy's Sermon

[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]

You didn't know of Bendigo! Well, that knocks me out!
Who's your board school teacher? What's he been about?

Chock-a-block with fairy-tales full of useless cram,
And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham!

Bendy's short for Bendigo. You should see him peel!
Half of him was whalebone, half of him was steel,

Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine in height,
Always ready to oblige if you want a fight.

I could talk of Bendigo from here to king- dom come,
I guess before I ended you would wish your dad was dumb.

I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and how the deaf 'un fell,
But the game is done, and...

Arthur Conan Doyle

By The North Sea

Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,
We walked where tide and shingle meet;
The long waves rolled from far away
To purr in ripples at our feet.
And as we walked it seemed to me
That three old friends had met that day,
The old, old sky, the old, old sea,
And love, which is as old as they.

Out seaward hung the brooding mist
We saw it rolling, fold on fold,
And marked the great Sun alchemist
Turn all its leaden edge to gold,
Look well, look well, oh lady mine,
The gray below, the gold above,
For so the grayest life may shine
All golden in the light of love.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Compensation

The grime is on the window pane,
Pale the London sunbeams fall,
And show the smudge of mildew stain,
Which lies on the distempered wall.

I am a cripple, as you see,
And here I lie, a broken thing,
But God has given flight to me,
That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.

For if I will to see or hear,
Quick as the thought my spirit flies,
And lo! the picture flashes clear,
Through all the mist of centuries.

I can recall the Tigris' strand,
Where once the Turk and Tartar met,
When the great Lord of Samarcand
Struck down the Sultan Bajazet.

Under a ten-league swirl of dust
The roaring battle swings and sways,
Now reeling down, now upward thrust,
The crescent sparkles through the haze.

I see the Janissaries fly,
I se...

Arthur Conan Doyle

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