Arthur Conan Doyle (Артур Конан Дойль)
«The Guards Came Through» (1919). 11. The Wreck on Loch McGarry
If you should search all Scotland round, The mainland, skerries, and the islands, A grimmer spot could not be found Than Loch McGarry in the Highlands. Pent in by frowning mountains high, It stretches silent as the tomb, Turbid and thick its waters lie, No eye can pierce their yellow gloom. 'Twas here that on a summer day Four tourists hired a crazy wherry. No warning voices bade them stay, As they pushed out on Loch McGarry. McFarlane, Chairman of the Board, A grim hard-fisted son of lucre, His thoughts were ever on his hoard, And life a money-game, like Euchre. Bob Ainslie, late of London Town, A spruce young butterfly of fashion, A wrinkle in his dressing-gown Would rouse an apoplectic passion. John Waters, John the self-absorbed, With thoughts for ever inward bent, Complacent, self-contained, self-orbed, Wrapped in eternal self-content. Lastly coquettish Mrs. Wild, Chattering, rowdy, empty-headed; At sight of her the whole world smiled, Except the wretch whom she had wedded. Such were the four who sailed that day, To the Highlands each a stranger; Sunlit and calm the wide loch lay, With not a hint of coming danger. Drifting they watched the heather hue, The waters and the cliffs that bound them; The air was still, the sky was blue, Deceitful peace lay all around them. McFarlane pondered on the stocks, John Waters on his own perfection, Bob Ainslie's thoughts were on his socks, And Mrs. Wild's on her complexion. When sudden—oh, that dreadful scream! That cry from panic fear begotten! The boat is gaping in each seam, The worn-out planks are old and rotten. With two small oars they work and strain, A long mile from the nearer shore They cease—their efforts are in vain; She's sinking fast, and all is o'er. The yellow water, thick as pap, Is crawling, crawling to the thwarts, And as they mark its upward lap, So fear goes crawling up their hearts. Slowly, slowly, thick as pap, The creeping yellow waters rise; Like drowning mice within a trap, They stare around with frantic eyes. Ah, how clearly they could see Every sin and shame and error! How they vowed that saints they'd be, If delivered from this terror! How they squirmed and how they squealed! How they shouted for assistance! How they fruitlessly appealed To the shepherds in the distance! How they sobbed and how they moaned, As the waters kept encroaching! How they wept and stormed and groaned, As they saw their fate approaching! And they vowed each good resolve Should be permanent as granite, Never, never, to dissolve, Firm and lasting like our planet. See them sit, aghast and shrinking! Surely it could not be true! "Oh, have mercy! Oh, we're sinking! Oh, good Lord, what shall we do!" Ah, it's coming! Now she founders! See the crazy wherry reel! Downward to the rocks she flounders— Just one foot beneath her keel! In the shallow, turbid water Lay the saving reef below. Oh, the waste of high emotion! Oh, the useless fear and woe! Late that day four sopping tourists To their quarters made their way, And the brushes of Futurists Scarce could paint their disarray. And with half-amused compassion They were viewed from the hotel, From the pulp-clad beau of fashion, To the saturated belle. But a change was in their features, And that change has come to tarry, For they all are altered creatures Since the wreck of Loch McGarry. Now McFarlane never utters Any talk of bills or bullion, But continually mutters Texts from Cyril or Tertullian. As to Ainslie, he's not caring How the new-cut collar lies, And has been detected wearing Dinner-jackets with white ties. Waters, who had never thought In his life of others' needs, Has most generously bought A nursing-home for invalids. And the lady—ah, the lady! She has turned from paths of sin, And her husband's face so shady Now is brightened by a grin. So misfortunes of to-day Are the blessings of to-morrow, And the wisest cannot say What is joy and what is sorrow. If your soul is arable You can start this seed within it, And my tiny parable May just help you to begin it.
Arthur Conan Doyle’s other poems:
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 1. A Hymn of Empire
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 26. The Orphanage
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 13. Compensation
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 8. The Outcasts
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 4. A Post-Impressionist
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