This poem comes to me by the courtesy of Bill Peschel who has a interesting site which includes a section called the Poems for Sherlock Holmes. Bill says, “This poem, by journalist John Northern Hilliard, was published in 1922, was written after Holmes’s final retirement in “His Last Bow.”” I hope you all enjoy this as much as I do, although I do not know how. This poem brings out in me those special, indescribable feelings of joy and peace I get whenever I go back to Baker Street.
By John Northern Hilliard
When Sherlock Holmes, ingenious man, pursued his strange career,
we followed his deductions with an interest sincere.
Although in his time his victories monotonous became,
we must admit that since he quit work, life’s never been the same.
He always kept his wits on tap, he always had a clue,
he always could foretell just what a criminal would do.
A bit of string, a button, or a half smoked cigarette
made up the only evidence that Sherlock Holmes need get.
And when he bagged his man and had him safe behind bars,
he’d tell the tale to Watson over coffee and cigars.
Friend Watson then would spin a yarn from details of the case,
and label it “The Tonkin Three” or “Mystery of a Face.”
We have detectives who are shrewd, detectives who are wise,
detectives who, like M. Lecoq, are experts at disguise.
We have detectives whose brave deeds would fill a dozen tomes,
but never one that can compare with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Dupin’s “Rue Morgue” deductions we today vote rather “slow,”
for Sherlock would have solved the case in half a day or so.
The novels of Gaboriau, the tales of Mrs. Green,
were tossed aside when Sherlock Holmes appeared upon the scene.
So here’s to Sherlock Holmes and may his glory never dim,
and here’s to his friend Watson for his faithfulness to him.
And here’s to Conan Doyle, may he attain the prophet’s span,
and all his life just write of Holmes, that great and noble man.