Songs Of The Road. Артур Конан Дойл

I 'ave no grudge against the man —

                I never 'eard 'is name,

           But if he was my closest pal

                I'd say the very same,

           For wot you do in other things

                Is neither 'ere nor there,

           But w'en it comes to 'orses

                You must keep upon the square.

           Now I'm tellin' you the story

                Just as it was told last night,

           And if I wrong this Arab man

                Then 'e can set me right;

           But s'posin' all these fac's are fac's,

                Then I make bold to say

           That I think it was not sportsmanlike

                To act in sich a way.

           For, as I understand the thing,

                'E went to sell this steed —

           Which is a name they give a 'orse

                Of some outlandish breed – ,

           And soon 'e found a customer,

                A proper sportin' gent,

           Who planked 'is money down at once

                Without no argument.

           Now when the deal was finished

                And the money paid, you'd think

           This Arab would 'ave asked the gent

                At once to name 'is drink,

           Or at least 'ave thanked 'im kindly,

                An' wished 'im a good day,

           And own as 'e'd been treated

                In a very 'andsome way.

           But instead o' this 'e started

                A-talkin' to the steed,

           And speakin' of its "braided mane"

                An' of its "winged speed,"

           And other sich expressions

                With which I can't agree,

           For a 'orse with wings an' braids an' things

                Is not the 'orse for me.

           The moment that 'e 'ad the cash —

                Or wot 'e called the gold,

           'E turned as nasty as could be:

                Says 'e, "You're sold!   You're sold!"

           Them was 'is words; it's not for me

                To settle wot he meant;

           It may 'ave been the 'orse was sold,

                It may 'ave been the gent.

           I've not a word to say agin

                His fondness for 'is 'orse,

           But why should 'e insinivate

                The gent would treat 'im worse?

           An' why should 'e go talkin'

                In that aggravatin' way,

           As if the gent would gallop 'im

                And wallop 'im all day?

           It may 'ave been an' 'arness 'orse,

                It may 'ave been an 'ack,

           But a bargain is a bargain,

                An' there ain't no goin' back;

           For when you've picked the money up,

                That finishes the deal,

           And after that your mouth is shut,

                Wotever you may feel.

           Supposin' this 'ere Arab man

                'Ad wanted to be free,

           'E could 'ave done it businesslike,

                The same as you or me;

           A fiver might 'ave squared the gent,

                An' then 'e could 'ave claimed

           As 'e'd cleared 'imself quite 'andsome,

                And no call to be ashamed.

           But instead 'o that this Arab man

                Went on from bad to worse,

           An' took an' chucked the money

                At the cove wot bought the 'orse;

           'E'd 'ave learned 'im better manners,

                If 'e'd waited there a bit,

           But 'e scooted on 'is bloomin' steed

                As 'ard as 'e could split.

           Per'aps 'e sold 'im after,

                Or per'aps 'e 'ires 'im out,

           But I'd like to warm that Arab man

                Wen next 'e comes about;

           For wot 'e does in other things

                Is neither 'ere nor there,

           But w'en it comes to 'orses

                We must keep 'im on the square.

      A POST-IMPRESSIONIST

           Peter Wilson, A.R.A.,

           In his small atelier,

           Studied Continental Schools,

           Drew by Academic rules.

           So he made his bid for fame,

           But no golden answer came,

           For the fashion of his day

           Chanced to set the other way,

           And decadent forms of Art

           Drew the patrons of the mart.

           Now this poor reward of merit

           Rankled so in Peter's spirit,

           It was more than he could bear;

           So one night in mad despair

           He took his canvas for the year

           ("Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier"),

           And he hurled it from his sight,