A Poem In Protest of Goofball Dr. Watsons (not mine)

Bruce_Watson1On Monday, May 11, the second of my three part look at Jeremy Brett’s Adventures of Sherlock Holmes will post over at Black Gate. Here’s part one. I posted quite a few pictures from the series over on my Facebook page over the past week or two.

The Granada series did marvelous work in transforming Nigel Bruce’s enduring image of the doofus assistant. David Burke, and then Edward Hardwicke, portrayed Watson without comic relief.

I came across this 1939 poem, which expressed the dissatisfaction with the poor image Watson was given in the movies. It was written by E. V. Knox (not Ronald), editor of Punch.

The stately Holmes of England, how beautiful he stood

Long, long ago in Baker Street – and still in Hollywood

He keeps the ancient flair for clues, the firm incisive chin,

The deerstalker, the dressing-gown, the shag, the violin.

But Watson, Doctor Watson! How altered, how betrayed

The fleet of foot, the warrior once, the faster than Lestrade!

What imbecile production, what madness for the moon

Has screened my glorious Watson as well nigh a buffoon?

Is this the face that went with Holmes on half a hundred trips

Through nights of rain, by gig, by train, are these the eyes, the lips?

These goggling eyes, these stammering lips, can these reveal the mind

How strong to tread, where duty led, his practice cast behind?

His not to reason why nor doubt the great detective’s plan –

The butt, maybe, of repartee yet still the perfect man,

Brace as the British lion is brave, brave as the buffalo,

What to they know of England who do not Watson know?

We have not many Sherlocks to sift the right from wrong

When evil stalks amongst us and craft and crime are strong,

Let not the Watsons fail us, the men of bull-dog mould,

Where still beneath the tight frock-coat beats on the heart of gold.

Watson, who dared the Demon Hound nor asked for fame nor fee,

Thou should’st be living at this hour. England hath need of thee!

Thus did I muse and muse aloud while wondering at the flick

Till people near me turned and said, ‘Shut up, you make us sick!’


Arthur Wontner’s main Watson, Ian Fleming

2 thoughts on “A Poem In Protest of Goofball Dr. Watsons (not mine)

  1. Pingback: A Poem from 1939 | The John H Watson Society

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