Артур Дойл - Songs of Action

A squadron of British horse that night,
Galloping hard in the shadowy light,
Came on the scene of that last stern fight,
And found the Corporal lying
Silent and grim on the trampled sand,
His rifle grasped in his stiffened hand,
With the warrior pride of one who died
’Mid a ring of the dead and the dying.

And still when twilight shadows fall,
After the evening bugle call,
In bivouac or in barrack-hall,
His comrades speak of the Corporal,
His death and his devotion.
And there are some who like to say
That perhaps a hidden meaning lay
In the words he spoke, and that the day
When his rough bold spirit passed away
Was the day that he won promotion.

‘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 vale,
Campesino Garcia?’
‘There I saw my bullocks twain,
And amid my uncut grain
All the hardy men of Spain
Spurring for their foemen.’

‘Nay, but there is more to tell,
Campesino Garcia!’
‘I could not bide the end to view;
I had graver things to do
Tending on the lambing ewe
Down among the clover.’

‘Ah, but tell me what you heard,
Campesino Garcia!’
‘Shouting from the mountain-side,
Shouting until eventide;
But it dwindled and it died
Ere milking time was over.’

‘Nay, but saw you nothing more,
Campesino Garcia?’
‘Yes, I saw them lying there,
The little man and sorrel mare;
And in their ranks the bowmen fair,
With their staves before them.’

‘And the hardy men of Spain,
Campesino Garcia?’
‘Hush! but we are Spanish too;
More I may not say to you:
May God’s benison, like dew,
Gently settle o’er them.’

Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
‘Never look down!
Stick to the line!’
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.
A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.

Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
Picking his way,
Dainty and fine,
Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.
Touring from London, so he said.
Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?

Where did they find it? How did it come?
If he tried with a shovel might he get some?
Stooping so much
Was bad for the spine;
And wasn’t it warmish in Pennarby mine?
’Twas like two worlds that met that day —
The world of work and the world of play;
And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft

Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.
‘Got ’em all out!’
‘A cousin of mine!’
So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.
And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,
Told him the facts about the pit:
How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell
Warned them off from tapping – well,

He wouldn’t say what,
But they took it as sign
To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.