Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

1859-1930 / Male / English
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A Hunting MorningPut the saddle on the mare, / For the wet winds blow; / There's winter in the air,
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A ParableThe cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there, / And warmly debated the matter; / The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
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H.M.S. Foudroyant[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.] / WHO says the Nation's purse is lean, / Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
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MasterMaster went a-hunting, / When the leaves were falling; / We saw him on the bridle path,
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The Guards Came ThroughMen of the Twenty-first / Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, / Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
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The Irish ColonelSaid the king to the colonel, / 'The complaints are eternal, / That you Irish give more trouble
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The Old HuntsmanThere's a keen and grim old huntsman / On a horse as white as snow; / Sometimes he is very swift
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The PassingIt was the hour of dawn, / When the heart beats thin and small, / The window glimmered grey,
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'Ware HolesA sportin' death! My word it was! / An' taken in a sportin' way. / Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
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