Songs of Action - Артур Конан Дойл

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is nearing eventide,

      And I fear our work is finished in Cremona.’

      Says Wauchop to McAulliffe, ‘Their fire is growing slack.’

      Says Major Dan O’Mahony, ‘It is their last attack;

         But who will stop the game

         While there’s light to play the same,

      And to walk a short way with them from Cremona?’

      And so they snarl behind them, and beg them turn and come,

      They have taken Neuberg’s standard, they have taken Diak’s drum;

         And along the winding Po,

         Beard on shoulder, stern and slow

      The Kaiserlics are riding from Cremona.

      Just two hundred Irish lads are shouting on the wall;

      Four hundred more are lying who can hear no slogan call;

         But what’s the odds of that,

         For it’s all the same to Pat

      If he pays his debt in Dublin or Cremona.

      Says General de Vaudray, ‘You’ve done a soldier’s work!

      And every tongue in France shall talk of Dillon and of Burke!

         Ask what you will this day,

         And be it what it may,

      It is granted to the heroes of Cremona.’

      ‘Why, then,’ says Dan O’Mahony, ‘one favour we entreat,

      We were called a little early, and our toilet’s not complete.

         We’ve no quarrel with the shirt,

         But the breeches wouldn’t hurt,

      For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.’

      THE STORMING PARTY

      Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,

      ‘Though the breach is steep and narrow,

         If we only gain the summit

            Then it’s odds we hold the fort.

      I have ten and you have twenty,

      And the thirty should be plenty,

      With Henderson and Henty

         And McDermott in support.’

      Said Barrow to Leroy,

      ‘It’s a solid job, my boy,

         For they’ve flanked it, and they’ve banked it,

            And they’ve bored it with a mine.

      But it’s only fifty paces

      Ere we look them in the faces;

      And the men are in their places,

         With their toes upon the line.’

      Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,

      ‘See that first ray, like an arrow,

         How it tinges all the fringes

            Of the sullen drifting skies.

      They told me to begin it

      At five-thirty to the minute,

      And at thirty-one I’m in it,

         Or my sub will get his rise.

      ‘So we’ll wait the signal rocket,

      Till.. Barrow, show that locket,

      That turquoise-studded locket,

      Which you slipped from out your pocket

            And are pressing with a kiss!

         Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,

      It is hers!  And I had missed it

      From her chain; and you have kissed it:

            Barrow, villain, what is this?’

      ‘Leroy, I had a warning,

      That my time has come this morning,

      So I speak with frankness, scorning

         To deny the thing that’s true.

      Yes, it’s Amy’s, is the trinket,

      Little turquoise-studded trinket,

      Not her gift – oh, never think it!

         For her thoughts were all for you.

      ‘As we danced I gently drew it

      From her chain – she never knew it

         But I love her – yes, I love her:

            I am candid, I confess.

      But I never told her, never,

      For I knew ’twas vain endeavour,

      And she loved you – loved you ever,

         Would to God she loved you less!’

      ‘Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!

      Me, your comrade, to betray me!

         Well I know that little Amy

            Is as true as wife can be.

      She to give this love-badged locket!

      She had rather.. Ha, the rocket!

      Hi, McDougall!  Sound the bugle!

         Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!’

* * * * *

      Said Paul Leroy to Amy,

      ‘Well, wifie, you may blame me,

      For my passion overcame me,

         When he told me of his shame;

      But when I saw him lying,

      Dead amid a ring of dying,

      Why, poor devil, I was trying

         To forget, and not to blame.

      ‘And this locket, I unclasped it

      From the fingers that still grasped it:

      He told me how he got it,

         How he stole it in a valse.’

      And she listened leaden-hearted:

      Oh, the weary day they parted!

      For she loved him – yes, she loved him —

      For his youth and for his truth,

         And for those dying words, so false.

      THE FRONTIER LINE

      What marks the frontier line?

         Thou man of India, say!

      Is it the Himalayas sheer,

      The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,

      Or Indus as she seeks the south

      From Attoch to the fivefold mouth?

            ‘Not that!  Not that!’

         Then answer me, I pray!

      What marks the frontier line?

      What marks the frontier line?

         Thou man of Burmah, speak!

      Is it traced from Mandalay,

      And down the marches of Cathay,

      From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,

      And where the buried rubies lie?

            ‘Not that!  Not that!’

        

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