TCDE-Team: Created page with " ''Verses'' is a poem written by Arthur Conan Doyle published in his handwritten magazine The Feldkirchian Gazette (Vol. I, october 1875). == Verses == Written on the imaginary case of a brilliant defence of the goals by Lomax. Parody on McCauley. Alone stood valiant Lomax, But constant still in mind. Some thirty yelling chaps before And the broad goals behind. "Shall the goal be taken tamely "While I am there"? he cried And he went and shinned a litt..."

2026-03-11T12:43:16Z

Created page with " ''Verses'' is a poem written by Arthur Conan Doyle published in his handwritten magazine The Feldkirchian Gazette (Vol. I, october 1875). == Verses == Written on the imaginary case of a brilliant defence of the goals by Lomax. Parody on McCauley. <poem> Alone stood valiant Lomax, But constant still in mind. Some thirty yelling chaps before And the broad goals behind. "Shall the goal be taken tamely "While I am there"? he cried And he went and shinned a litt..."

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''Verses'' is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] published in his handwritten magazine [[The Feldkirchian Gazette]] (Vol. I, october 1875).

== Verses ==

Written on the imaginary case of a brilliant defence of the goals by Lomax. Parody on McCauley.

<poem>
Alone stood valiant Lomax,
But constant still in mind.
Some thirty yelling chaps before
And the broad goals behind.
"Shall the goal be taken tamely
"While I am there"? he cried
And he went and shinned a little chap
Who was on his own side.
Then he tightened up his breetches
Stuck his hat upon his nob,
And with a brilliant warwhoop
Sprung headlong through the mob.

No sound of joy or sorrow,
No noise of shouting loud.
But friends and foes in mute surprise
With parted lips and straining eyes
Stood gazing at the crowd.
And when above the squashers
They saw his nose appear,
His side set up a joyful cry
And even the prefect standing bye
Could scarce forbear to cheer.

But he was tired of squashing.
All pallid was his nose.
And oft they thought him falling
But yet again he rose.

Never, I wean, did player
Such great misfortunes meet
As he struggled through a raging squash
With the ball beneath his feet.
But he heeded not a tumble
And he heeded not a shin,
While he clove a path before him
With his nose and with his chin.

But now he's reached the edges
And now outside he stands
His face was very dirty.
And filthy were his hands.
"The goal is saved" he faintly cried
And mid the cheering loud,
He kicked the heavy ball away
Far from the hostile crowd.
</poem>

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

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