Артур Дойл - Songs Of The Road

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 brought reflection,
He was shamed at his dejection,
And he thought with consternation
Of his poor, ill-used creation;
Down he rushed, and found it there
Lying all exposed and bare,
Mud-bespattered, spoiled, and botched,
Water sodden, fungus-blotched,
All the outlines blurred and wavy,
All the colours turned to gravy,
Fluids of a dappled hue,
Blues on red and reds on blue,
A pea-green mother with her daughter,
Crazy boats on crazy water
Steering out to who knows what,
An island or a lobster-pot?

Oh, the wretched man's despair!
Was it lost beyond repair?
Swift he bore it from below,
Hastened to the studio,
Where with anxious eyes he studied
If the ruin, blotched and muddied,
Could by any human skill
Be made a normal picture still.

Thus in most repentant mood
Unhappy Peter Wilson stood,
When, with pompous face, self-centred,
Willoughby the critic entered —
He of whom it has been said
He lives a century ahead —
And sees with his prophetic eye
The forms which Time will justify,
A fact which surely must abate
All longing to reincarnate.

"Ah, Wilson," said the famous man,
Turning himself the walls to scan,
"The same old style of thing I trace,
Workmanlike but commonplace.
Believe me, sir, the work that lives
Must furnish more than Nature gives.
'The light that never was,' you know,
That is your mark – but here, hullo!

What's this? What's this? Magnificent!
I've wronged you, Wilson! I repent!
A masterpiece! A perfect thing!
What atmosphere! What colouring!
Spanish Armada, is it not?
A view of Ryde, no matter what,
I pledge my critical renown
That this will be the talk of Town.
Where did you get those daring hues,
Those blues on reds, those reds on
blues?
That pea-green face, that gamboge sky?
You've far outcried the latest cry —
Out Monet-ed Monet. I have said
Our Art was sleeping, but not dead.
Long have we waited for the Star,
I watched the skies for it afar,
The hour has come – and here you are."
And that is how our artist friend
Found his struggles at an end,

And from his little Chelsea flat
Became the Park Lane plutocrat.
'Neath his sheltered garden wall
When the rain begins to fall,
And the stormy winds do blow,
You may see them in a row,
Red effects and lake and yellow
Getting nicely blurred and mellow.
With the subtle gauzy mist
Of the great Impressionist.
Ask him how he chanced to find
How to leave the French behind,
And he answers quick and smart,
"English climate's best for Art."

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 Tommies, big and small,
Grumbling hard as is their habit.
"Say, mate, what's a Bunerwal?"
"Sometime like a bloomin' rabbit."
"Got to hoof it to Chitral!"
"Blarst ye, did ye think to cab it!"
Eighty Tommies, big and small,
Grumbling hard as is their habit.

Swarthy Goorkhas, short and stout,
Merry children, laughing, crowing,
Don't know what it's all about,
Don't know any use in knowing;
Only know they mean to go
Where the Sirdar thinks of going.
Little Goorkhas, brown and stout,
Merry children, laughing, crowing.

Funjaub Rifles, fit and trim,
Curly whiskered sons of battle,
Very dignified and prim
Till they hear the Jezails rattle;
Cattle thieves of yesterday,
Now the wardens of the cattle,
Fighting Brahmins of Lahore,
Curly whiskered sons of battle.

Up the winding mountain path
See the long-drawn column go;
Himalayan aftermath
Lying rosy on the snow.
Motley ministers of wrath
Building better than they know,
In the rosy aftermath
Trailing upward to the snow.

Not tired of 'earin' stories! You're a nailer,
so you are!
I thought I should 'ave choked you off with
that 'ere motor-car.
Well, mister, 'ere's another; and, mind you,
it's a fact,
Though you'll think perhaps I copped it
out o' some blue ribbon tract.

It was in the days when farmer men were
jolly-faced and stout,
For all the cash was comin' in and little
goin' out,
But now, you see, the farmer men are
'ungry-faced and thin,
For all the cash is goin' out and little
comin' in.

But in the days I'm speakin' of, before
the drop in wheat,
The life them farmers led was such as
couldn't well be beat;
They went the pace amazin', they 'unted
and they shot,
And this 'ere Jeremiah Brown the liveliest
of the lot.

'E was a fine young fellar; the best roun'
'ere by far,
But just a bit full-blooded, as fine young
fellars are;
Which I know they didn't ought to, an' it's
very wrong of course,
But the colt wot never capers makes a
mighty useless 'orse.

The lad was never vicious, but 'e made the
money go,
For 'e was ready with 'is "yes," and back-
ward with 'is "no."
And so 'e turned to drink which is the
avenoo to 'ell,
An' 'ow 'e came to stop 'imself is wot' I
'ave to tell.

Four days on end 'e never knew 'ow 'e 'ad
got to bed,
Until one mornin' fifty clocks was tickin'
in 'is 'ead,
And on the same the doctor came, "You're
very near D.T.,
If you don't stop yourself, young chap,
you'll pay the price," said 'e.

"It takes the form of visions, as I fear
you'll quickly know;
Perhaps a string o' monkeys, all a-sittin' in
a row,
Perhaps it's frogs or beetles, perhaps it's
rats or mice,
There are many sorts of visions and
there's none of 'em is nice."

But Brown 'e started laughin': "No
doctor's muck," says 'e,
"A take-'em-break-'em gallop is the only
cure for me!
They 'unt to-day down 'Orsham way.
Bring round the sorrel mare,
If them monkeys come inquirin' you can
send 'em on down there."

Well, Jeremiah rode to 'ounds, exactly as
'e said.
But all the time the doctor's words were
ringin' in 'is 'ead —
"If you don't stop yourself, young chap,
you've got to pay the price,
There are many sorts of visions, but none
of 'em is nice."