The times., 1898-09-11

gone, comes the song of the English bow
men. cheerily marching TO the succor of
their friends. And this is the song that
they sing:
What OF the bow?
The bow made in England;
OF true wood, OF yew wo-d,
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 made in England;
rough cord, tough cord.
A cord that bowmen love;
And so Will sing
OF the hempen string
And the land where the cord was wove.
What Of the shaft2
The shaft cut in England;
long shaft, a strong shaft,
Barbed and trim and true;
So we'll drink all together
To the gray goose feather,
And the land where the gray goose few.
What of the mark?
All, seek it not in England;
bold mark, cur old mark,
Is waiting oversee;
When the strings harp in chorus
And the lion flag is DER us,
II is there that our mark viii be.
What of the men7
The men were bred in England;
The bOWmen-the yPsmen,
The lads OF dale and fell;
Here's 10 you-and TO you!
To the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell.
All the strong and reckless life of the
outlaw hosts OF Nottinghamshire is in
that measure, and one can hear the whiz
of the arrow as the English bowman sent
l% s1l1t 70 tee ha tVua 81
of the released string. Doyle's gift of
language is less in picture than in sound.
He makes one hear things oftener than
see them Still, he can draw you pic
ture If there is need Here is a desert
scene. with two wandering soldiers in the
midst of it:
Weary and parched and hunger-toTn
They had wandered on from early morn,
And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn,
Now stumbling and now falling.
Around the orange sand-ou.ves lay,
Flecked with boulders. black or gray,
Death-siient save that far away
kite was shrilly calling.
This is almost the only pure picture
verse in the book, and even here there
must needs be the suggestion OF sound.
There are no more vivid pictures than
this author has given US in his novels,
and II would be well if he were to use
this gift occasionally in his poems.
There is not very much psychological
interest in these lyrics, either. The hu-
man feeling in them is simple, strai ight-
forward and unsentimental. One of the
best of the ballads is THE Dying Whip
in which the jockey, dying Of consump-
ton, watches the hunt from his window
and begs the nurse to prop him up SO
that he may see the very last of it. This
is man born to be a jockey, nothing
more or less; 1t is in his blood; he has
done his work, and had pride in it. and
now the race is over, and he is beaten.
He takes it gamely; he is without sub
tleties and without much sentiment. The
only hint of pathos-and without il the
poem would be incomplete-is in tie last
line Of the last verse:
Well, all things 'as an endin', as I've card the
pareon say
The 'orse is cast, an the 'ound is past, an the
funter as is day.
But my day was yesterday, 50 lay me down
again.
You can draw the curtain, Maggie, right acrcsS
the window-pane.
This will rank with the North Country
Farmer of Tennyson, the Sir Anthony
Gloster" of Kipling and Kingsley's
where the Dun Deer Lie" The four
are as different as different can be, but
each is a perfect picture of a passing soul
| and each illustrates in its way that old
saying that a man is as he thinketh in
| his heart.
| There is but one piece which can prop
| erly be called humorous, and that is full
| of rollicking, rich, healthy laughter. IT
| is called 1.-The Groom's Story" and
should be read to be appreciated 1t Is
| one of the quaintest legends ever woven
| about the form of horse.
| There are other lyrics in the book,
which is small enough to tuck comforta-
| bly, into a coat pocket, but these are fair
| examples. 1t is to be hoped that Conan
| Doyle will write more songs when his
/ fancy prompts him TO do so. Doubleday
& Mcclure Company. New York;