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	''A Lilt of the Road'' is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] published in the collected volume [[Songs of the Road]] on 16 march 1911.		''A Lilt of the Road'' is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] first published in the collected volume [[Songs of the Road]] on 16 march 1911.

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	== A Lilt of the Road ==		== A Lilt of the Road ==

	''Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September 1908''		''Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September 1908.''


	<poem>		<poem>

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TCDE-Team at 11:35, 22 July 2016

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''A Lilt of the Road'' is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] first published in the collected volume [[Songs of the Road]] on 16 march 1911.

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== Editions ==

* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (16 march 1911, [[Smith, Elder & Co.]] [UK])
* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (october 1911, [[Doubleday & McClure Co.|Doubleday, Page & Co.]] [US])
* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (27 january 1920, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[Songs of the Road]]'' (february 1920, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]]'' (21 september 1922, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]]'' (14 september 1928, [[John Murray]]'s ''Fiction Library'' [UK])

== A Lilt of the Road ==

''Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September 1908''

To St. Albans' town we came; 
Roman Albanus — hence the name. 
Whose shrine commemorates the faith 
Which led him to a martyr's death. 
A high cathedral marks his grave, 
With noble screen and sculptured nave. 
From thence to Hatfield lay our way, 
Where the proud Cecils held their sway, 
And ruled the country, more or less, 
Since the days of Good Queen Bess. 
Next through Hitchin's Quaker hold 
To Bedford, where in days of old 
John Bunyan, the unorthodox, 
Did a deal in local stocks. 
Then from Bedford's peaceful nook 
Our pilgrim's progress still we took 
Until we slackened up our pace 
In Saint Neots' market-place.

Next day, the motor flying fast, 
Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford passed, 
Until at Doncaster we found 
That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's bound. 
Northward and ever North we pressed, 
The Brontë Country to our West. 
Still on we flew without a wait, 
Skirting the edge of Harrowgate, 
And through a wild and dark ravine, 
As bleak a pass as we have seen, 
Until we slowly circled down 
And settled into Settle town.

On Sunday, in the pouring rain, 
We started on our way again. 
Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove, 
The weary rain-clouds still above, 
Until at last at Windermere 
We felt our final port was near, 
Thence the lake with wooded beach 
Stretches far as eye can reach. 
There above its shining breast 
We enjoyed our welcome rest. 
Tuesday saw us — still in rain — 
Buzzing on our road again. 
Rydal first, the smallest lake, 
Famous for great Wordsworth's sake; 
Grasmere next appeared in sight, 
Grim Helvellyn on the right, 
Till we made our downward way 
To the streets of Keswick gray. 
Then amid a weary waste 
On to Penrith Town we raced, 
And for many a flying mile, 
Past the ramparts of Carlisle, 
Till we crossed the border line 
Of the land of Auld lang syne. 
Here we paused at Gretna Green, 
Where many curious things were seen 
At the grimy blacksmith's shop, 
Where flying couples used to stop 
And forge within the smithy door 
The chain which lasts for evermore. 
They'd soon be back again, I think, 
If blacksmith's skill could break the link. 
Ecclefechan held us next, 
Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed 
By the clamour and the strife 
Of this strange and varied life. 
We saw his pipe, we saw his hat, 
We saw the stone on which he sat. 
The solid stone is resting there, 
But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?

Over a dreary wilderness 
We had to take our path by guess, 
For Scotland's glories don't include 
The use of signs to mark the road. 
For forty miles the way ran steep 
Over bleak hills with scattered sheep, 
Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies, 
We saw the stately towers rise 
Where noble Edinburgh lies — 
No city fairer or more grand 
Has ever sprung from human hand. 
But I must add (the more's the pity) 
That though in fair Dunedin's city 
Scotland's taste is quite delightful, 
The smaller Scottish towns are frightful. 
When in other lands I roam 
And sing "There is no place like home." 
In this respect I must confess 
That no place has its ugliness. 
Here on my mother's granite breast 
We settled down and took our rest.

On Saturday we ventured forth 
To push our journey to the North. 
Past Linlithgow first we sped, 
Where the Palace rears its head, 
Then on by Falkirk, till we pass 
The famous valley and morass 
Known as Bannockburn in story, 
Brightest scene of Scottish glory. 
On pleasure and instruction bent 
We made the Stirling hill ascent, 
And saw the wondrous vale beneath, 
The lovely valley of Monteith, 
Stretching under sunlit skies 
To where the Trossach hills arise. 
Thence we turned our willing car 
Westward ho! to Callander, 
Where childish memories awoke 
In the wood of ash and oak, 
Where in days so long gone by 
I heard the woodland pigeons cry, 
And, consternation in my face, 
Legged it to some safer place.

Next morning first we viewed a mound, 
Memorial of some saint renowned, 
And then the mouldered ditch and ramp 
Which marked an ancient Roman camp. 
Then past Lubnaig on we went, 
Gazed on Ben Ledi's steep ascent, 
And passed by lovely stream and valley 
Through Dochart Glen to reach Dalmally, 
Where on a rough and winding track 
We wished ourselves in safety back; 
Till on our left we gladly saw 
The spreading waters of Loch Awe, 
And still more gladly — truth to tell — 
A very up-to-date hotel, 
With Conan's church within its ground, 
Which gave it quite a homely sound. 
Thither we came upon the Sunday, 
Viewed Kilchurn Castle on the Monday, 
And Tuesday saw us sally forth 
Bound for Oban and the North.

We came to Oban in the rain, 
I need not mention it again, 
For you may take it as a fact 
That in that Western Highland tract 
It sometimes spouts and sometimes drops, 
But never, never, never stops. 
From Oban on we thought it well 
To take the steamer for a spell. 
But ere the motor went aboard 
The Pass of Melfort we explored. 
A lovelier vale, more full of peace, 
Was never seen in classic Greece; 
A wondrous gateway, reft and torn, 
To open out the land of Lome. 
Leading on for many a mile 
To the kingdom of Argyle.

Wednesday saw us on our way 
Steaming out from Oban Bay, 
(Lord, it was a fearsome day!) 
To right and left we looked upon 
All the lands of Stevenson — 
Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour, 
Ardshiel, Appin, and Mamore — 
If their tale you wish to learn 
Then to 'Kidnapped' you must turn. 
Strange that one man's eager brain 
Can make those dead lands live again! 
From the deck we saw Glencoe, 
Where upon that night of woe 
William's men did such a deed 
As even now we blush to read. 
Ben Nevis towered on our right, 
The clouds concealed it from our sight, 
But it was comforting to say 
That over there Ben Nevis lay. 
Finally we made the land 
At Fort William's sloping strand, 
And in our car away we went 
Along that lasting monument, 
The good broad causeway which was made 
By King George's General Wade. 
He built a splendid road, no doubt, 
Alas! he left the sign-posts out. 
And so we wandered, sad to say, 
Far from our appointed way, 
Till twenty mile of rugged track 
In a circle brought us back. 
But the incident we viewed 
In a philosophic mood. 
Tired and hungry but serene 
We settled at the Bridge of Spean.

Our journey now we onward press 
Toward the town of Inverness, 
Through a country all alive 
With memories of 'forty-five.' 
The noble clans once gathered here, 
Where now are only grouse and deer. 
Alas, that men and crops and herds 
Should ever yield their place to birds! 
And that the splendid Highland race 
Be swept aside to give more space 
For forests where the deer may stray 
For some rich owner far away, 
Whose keeper guards the lonely glen 
Which once sent out a hundred men! 
When from Inverness we turned, 
Feeling that a rest was earned. 
We stopped at Nairn, for golf links famed, 
'Scotland's Brighton' it is named, 
Though really, when the phrase we heard, 
It seemed a little bit absurd, 
For Brighton's size compared to Nairn 
Is just a mother to her bairn.

We halted for a day of rest, 
But took one journey to the West 
To view old Cawdor's tower and moat 
Of which unrivalled Shakespeare wrote, 
Where once Macbeth, the schemer deep, 
Slew royal Duncan in his sleep, 
But actors since avenged his death 
By often murdering Macbeth. 
Hard by we saw the circles gray 
Where Druid priests were wont to pray. 
Three crumbling monuments we found, 
With Stonehenge monoliths around, 
But who had built and who had planned 
We tried in vain to understand, 
As future learned men may search 
The reasons for our village church. 
This was our limit, for next day 
We turned upon, our homeward way, 
Passing first Culloden's plain 
Where the tombstones of the slain 
Loom above the purple heather. 
There the clansmen lie together — 
Men from many an outland skerry, 
Men from Athol and Glengarry, 
Camerons from wild Mamore, 
MacDonalds from the Irish Shore, 
Red MacGregors and McLeods 
With their tartans for their shrouds, 
Menzies, Malcolms from the islands, 
Frasers from the upper Highlands — 
Callous is the passer by 
Who can turn without a sigh 
From the tufts of heather deep 
Where the noble clansmen sleep. 
Now we swiftly made our way 
To Kingussie in Strathspey, 
Skirting many a nameless loch 
As we flew through Badenoch, 
Till at Killiecrankie's Pass, 
Heather changing into grass 
We descended once again 
To the fertile lowland plain, 
And by Perth and old Dunblane 
Reached the banks of Allan Water, 
Famous for the miller's daughter, 
Whence at last we circled back 
Till we crossed our Stirling track. 
So our little journey ended, 
Gladness and instruction blended — 
Not a care to spoil our pleasure, 
Not a thought to break our leisure, 
Drifting on from Sussex hedges 
Up through Yorkshire's fells and ledges 
Past the deserts and morasses 
Of the dreary Border passes, 
Through the scenes of Scottish story 
Past the fields of battles gory.

In the future it will seem 
To have been a happy dream, 
But unless my hopes are vain 
We may dream it soon again.

----
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:Complete Works|Back to Complete Works]]
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle|Back to Conan Doyle]]

A Lilt of the Road - Revision history

TCDE-Team at 21:35, 4 April 2026

TCDE-Team at 21:28, 4 April 2026

TCDE-Team at 21:26, 4 April 2026

TCDE-Team at 11:35, 22 July 2016