Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

What of the bow? The bow was made in England: Of true wood, of yew-wood, The wood of English bows; So men who are free Love the old yew-tree And the land where the yew-tree grows. What of the cord? The cord was made in England: A rough cord, a tough cord, A cord that bowmen love; And so we will sing Of the hempen string And the land where the cord was wove. What of the shaft? The shaft was cut in England: A long shaft, a strong shaft, Barbed and trim and true; So we’ll drink all together To the grey goose-feather And the land where the grey goose flew. What of the mark? Ah, seek it not in England, A bold mark, our old mark Is waiting over-sea. When the strings harp in chorus, And the lion flag is o’er us, It is there that our mark will be. What of the men? The men were bred in England: The bowmen—the yeomen, The lads of dale and fell. Here’s to you—and to you! To the hearts that are true And the land where the true hearts dwell.

There is a better thing, dear heart, Than youthful flush or girlish grace. There is the faith that never fails, The courage in the danger place, The duty seen, and duty done, The heart that yearns for all in need, The lady soul which could not stoop To selfish thought or lowly deed. All that we ever dreamed, dear wife, Seems drab and common by the truth, The sweet sad mellow things of life Are more than golden dreams of youth.

God’s own best will bide the test And God’s own worst will fall; But, best or worst or last or first, He ordereth it all. For all is good, if understood, (Ah, could we understand!) And right and ill are tools of skill Held in His either hand. The harlot and the anchorite, The martyr and the rake, Deftly He fashions each aright, Its vital part to take. Wisdom He makes to form the fruit Where the high blossoms be; And Lust to kill the weaker shoot, And Drink to trim the tree. And Holiness that so the bole Be solid at the core; And Plague and Fever, that the whole Be changing evermore. He strews the microbes in the lung, The blood-clot in the brain; With test and test He picks the best, Then test them once again. He tests the body and the mind, He rings them o’er and o’er; And if they crack, He throws them back, And fashions them once more. He chokes the infant throat with slime, He sets the ferment free; He builds the tiny tube of lime That blocks the artery. He lets the youthful dreamer store Great projects in his brain, Until He drops the fungus spore That smears them out again. He stores the milk that feeds the babe, He dulls the tortured nerve; He gives a hundred joys of sense Where few or none might serve. And still He trains the branch of good Where the high blossoms be, And wieldeth still the shears of ill To prune and prune His tree.

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.

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 driver’s haft, And it’s good to feel the jar of the steel And the spring of the hickory shaft. Why trouble or seek for the praise of a clique? A cleek here is common to all; And the lie that might sting is a very small thing When compared with the lie of the ball. Come youth and come age, from the study or stage, From Bar or from Bench—high and low! A green you must use as a cure for the blues— You drive them away as you go. We’re outward bound on a long, long round, And it’s time to be up and away: If worry and sorrow come back with the morrow, At least we’ll be happy to-day.

Men of the Twenty-first Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food, After a day and a night. God, shall we ever forget? Beaten and broke in the fight, But sticking it, sticking it yet, Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done; Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun. Northumberland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it, sticking it yet. Never a message of hope, Never a word of cheer! Fronting Hill 70’s shell-swept slope, With the dull, dead plain in our rear; Always the shriek of the shell, Always the roar of the burst, Always the tortures of Hell, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck, the guns, and the Boche. When our Corporal shouted “Stand to!” And I heard some one cry, “Clear the front for the Guards!”— And the Guards came through. Our throats they were parched and hot, But Lord, if you’d heard the cheer, Irish and Welsh and Scot, Coldstream and Grenadier— Two Brigades, if you please, Dressing as straight as a hem. We, we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them, Praying with tear-wet cheek, Praying with outstretched hand. Lord! I could speak for a week, But how could you understand? How could your cheeks be wet? Such feelin’s don’t come to you; But how can me or my mates forget When the Guards came through? “Five yards left extend!” It passed from rank to rank, And line after line, with never a bend, And a touch of the London swank. A trifle of swank and dash, Cool as a home parade, Twinkle, glitter and flash, Flinching never a shade, With the shrapnel right in their face, Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Swinging along at an easy pace, Arms at the trail, eyes front. Man! it was great to see! Man! it was fine to do! It’s a cot, and hospital ward for me, But I’ll tell them in Blighty wherever I be, How the Guards came through.