View source for Songs of Action (article 16 june 1898)

This article published in [[The Daily Chronicle]] on 16 june 1898 includes 4 extracts of poems written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]].

[[Songs of Action]] is a collected volume of poems written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] published by [[Smith, Elder & Co.]] on 8 june 1898.


== Article ==
[[File:the-daily-chronicle-london-1898-06-14-p3-songs-of-action.jpg|thumb|250px|right|[[The Daily Chronicle]] (16 june 1898, p. 3)]]

'''"Songs of Action." by [[Arthur Conan Doyle|A. Conan Doyle]].'''<br>
(London: [[Smith, Elder & Co.]] 5s.)

Readers of "[[The White Company]]" do not need to be told that [[Arthur Conan Doyle|Dr. Conan Doyle]] can write spirited verse. This little book of "[[Songs of Action]]" opens with "[[The Song of the Bow]]" from that romance — a ditty with a swing which no one who has read it can have forgotten. Both in subject and in style it strikes the keynote of the volume. [[Arthur Conan Doyle|Dr. Doyle]] has a hearty, healthy relish for all outdoor sports, the game of war among the rest, and he has a happy knack of expressing this relish in cantering, rub-a-dub rhythms. His rhymes lack technical artistry, exquisiteness of diction; but they are, almost without exception, "rattling good verses." They ought to be a godsend to the reciter, who we trust will appreciate them. [[Arthur Conan Doyle|Dr. Doyle]] has not the amazing virtuosity Mr Kipling, but he is more straight-forward in his narrative style, less recondite and technical in his vocabulary, and therefore, we conceive, better fitted for platform purposes. "[[Cremona]]," "[[Corporal Dick's Promotion]]," and several of the hunting pieces will no doubt before long be familiar in the recitation room. Of [[Arthur Conan Doyle|Dr. Doyle]]'s patriotic songs, the best to our thinking of "[[A Ballad of the Ranks]]." We quote the sixth and seventh stanzas and the refrain:—

: Who carries the gun?
: A lad from London town.
: Then let him go, for well we know
: The stuff that never backs down.
: He has learned to joke at the powder smoke,
: For he is the fog-smoke's son,
: And his heart is light and his pluck is right—
: The man who carries the gun.

: Who carries the gun?
: A lad from the Emerald Isle.
: Then let him go, for well we know,
: We've tried him many a while.
: We've tried him east, we've tried him west,
: We've tried him sea and land,
: But the man to beat old Erin's best
: Has never yet been planned.

: For the Colonel rides before,
: The Major's on the flank;
: The Captains and the Adjutant
: Are in the foremost rank.
: And when it's 'Action front!'
: And there's fighting to be done,
: Come one, come all, you stand or fall
: By the man who holds the gun.

This is neat and workmanlike rhyming, and set to a taking air might advantageously compete with many of the lyrics which have been popular of late. "[[The Frontier Line]]" is better in idea, but is marred, in our judgment, by its curiously lame refrain, which might, however, prove apt enough for musical treatment. But racing and fox-hunting, even more than war, call forth the best of [[Arthur Conan Doyle|Dr. Doyle]]'s talent. If there is anywhere in rhyme a more spirited description of a steeplechase than "[[The Farnshire Cup]]," it is not known to us. Here are three of its stanzas:—

: Chestnut and bay, and sorrel and gray,
: See how they glimmer and gleam!
: Bending and straining, and losing and gaining,
: Silk jackets flutter and stream;
: They are over the grass as the cloud shadows pass,
: They are up to the fence at the top;
: It's 'hey then!' and over, and into the clover,
: There wasn't one slip at the drop.

: They are all going still; they are round by the mill,
: They are down by the Whittlesea gate;
: Leah's complaining, and Mavis is gaining,
: And Flo's catching up in the straight.
: Robin's gone wrong, but the Spider runs strong,
: He sticks to the leader like wax;
: An utter outsider, but look at his rider—
: Jo Chauncy, the pick of the cracks!

: Robin was tailing and pecked at a paling,
: Leah's gone weak in her feet;
: Boadicea came down at the railing,
: Son of the Sea is dead beat.
: Leather to leather, they're pounding together,
: Three of them all in a row;
: And Irish Nuneaton, who never was beaten,
: Is level with Spider and Flo.

The plot of this piece (for a plot there is) will no doubt be appreciated by racing men; the present writer — a rank outsider — catches but a glimmer of its meaning. On to other hand, there is no plot whatever to "[[The Old Gray Fox]]": it is simply a vigorous gallop of rhymes:—

: The Member rode his thoroughbred,
: Doctor had the gray,
: The Soldier led on a roan red,
: The Sailor rode the bay.
: Squire was there on his Irish mare,
: And Parson on the brown;
: And so we chased the old gray fox,
: The same old fox,
: The game old fox,
: And so we chased the old gray fox
: Across the Hankley Down.

: The Doctor's gray was going strong
: Until she slipped and fell;
: He had to keep his bed so long
: His patients all got well.
: The Member he had lost his seat,
: 'Twas carried by his horse;
: And so we chased the old gray fox,
: The same old fox,
: The game old fox;
: And so we chased the old gray fox
: That earthed in Hankley Gorse.

Towards the end of [[Arthur Conan Doyle|Dr. Doyle]]'s book there are some verses of a more serious strain, which show real poetic feeling. "[[The Inner Room]]" is an ingenious parable of heredity, "[[The Old Huntsman]]" a powerful personification of death. "[[The Passing]]" is a genuine poem, terse and strong, with suicide for its subject; but we own it strikes us as s barely defensible playing with edge-tools. If [[Arthur Conan Doyle|Dr. Doyle]] really believes that the solution of things is so very simple, we wish he would produce his evidence; if he does not believe it, ought he to suggest that he does even "in a poetical lie-sense"? Here, to conclude, is "[[A Parable (poem 1898)|A Parable]]" of somewhat enigmatic bent:—

: 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.

Quite so; but what does the cow stand for?






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* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:Complete Works|Back to Complete Works]]
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