But those eyes were always looking,
Out toward the Java seas,
Where the maid he loved was waiting—
Dearer prize to him than these.
But his mission was accomplished,
And a new and added gem
Sparkled with a wondrous lustre
In the Dutch king’s diadem.
Little did the gallant seaman
Think that in the days to be,
England’s hand should proudly wrest it
From his land’s supremacy.
THE GROOM’S STORY.
By A. Conan Doyle.
Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it,
sir. That’s true.
The big bay ’orse in the further stall—the one wot’s next to you.
I’ve seen some better ’orses; I’ve seldom seen a wuss,
But ’e ‘olds the bloomin’ record, an’ that’s good enough for us.
We knew as it was in ’im. ’E’s
thoroughbred, three part,
We bought ’im for to race ’im, but we found ’e ’ad no ’eart;
For ‘e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin’ dignified,
It seemed a kind o’ liberty to drive ’im or to ride;
For ‘e never seemed a-thinkin’ of what
’e ’ad to do.
But ’is thoughts was set on ‘igher things, admirin’ of the view.
’E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur ’e would stay,
’E wouldn’t even switch ’is tail to drive the flies away.
And yet we knew ’twas in ’im; we knew
as ’e could fly;
But what we couldn’t get at was ’ow to make ’im try.
We’d almost turned the job up, until at last one day,
We got the last yard out of ‘m in a most amazin’ way.
It was all along o’ master; which master ’as
Of a reg’lar true blue sportsman, an’ always acts the same;
But we all ’as weaker moments, which master ’e ’ad one,
An’ ’e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.
I seed it in the stable yard—it fairly
turned me sick—
A greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You’ve a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an’ bred in a blacksmith’s shop.
It didn’t want no stable, it didn’t ask
It didn’t need no nothin’ but a bit o’ standin’ room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an’ it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could ’ave my way.
Well, master took ‘is motor-car, an’ moted
‘ere an’ there,
A frightenin’ the ‘orses an’ a poisenin’ the air.
‘E wore a bloomin’ yachtin’ cap, but Lor!—what did ’e know,
Excep’ that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?
An’ then one day it wouldn’t go.
’E screwed and screwed again
But somethin’ jammed, an’ there ’e stuck in the mud of a country
It ’urt ’is pride most cruel, but what was ’e to do?
So at last ’e bade me fetch a ’orse to pull the motor through.
This was the ’orse we fetched ‘im; an’
when we reached the car,
We braced ’im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up ’is traces and lashed them to each side,
While ’e ’eld ’is ’ead so ‘aughtily, an’ looked most dignified.