Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Poems

Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,
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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,
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Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
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Here's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
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The franklin he hath gone to roam, The franklin's maid she bides at home; But she is cold, and coy, and staid, And who may win the franklin's maid?
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It is mine – the little chamber,
Mine alone.
I had it from my forbears
Years agone.
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Said the king to the colonel, 'The complaints are eternal, That you Irish give more trouble Than any other corps.'
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Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
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What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows;
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What marks the frontier line? Thou man of India, say! Is it the Himalayas sheer,
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