Epistle 1st from Richard


Here is one of Clare's love poems where Richard is writing to Kate - Clare appended to one of the manuscripts, "Richard a Country Clown and Kitty the Milkmaid".  Half a dozen years later Clare was composing the Hubbergubbel letters in much the same way.  As Professor Robinson wrote in his Introduction to Clare's aborted novel Memoirs of Uncle Barnaby, "It is high time that we learn to understand why Clare determined to ignore much that editors had forced upon him - and laugh with him."

Dear kate 
            Since I no longer can 
Go on in such a mopeing plan 

I send these lines with ham & hum 

To let the[e] ‘no’ I mean to cum' 

Sum' time or uther you to see 

W'en things ar' fitting to agree 


For ever since you jog'd from here 

The day to me do's seem a year 

I can't endur't so 'tis no use 

I love you wel' without excuse 

Therefore as now I plainly show't 

I only wish for you to 'now't 


& w'en the let'er you do get 

Let it suffice you how I fret 

For e'rey night I gang to bed 

Nou'ht but kit runs in my he'd 

The boys they all keep clit'er clat'er 

Wondering w'at can be the mat'er 


W'y I look dul'.—& w'ats befel' 

They on'y wish I wou'd but tel' 

But I'm determind not to do't 

They'l' on'y call me foolish fo' 't 

Yet not as I shou'd car' for that 

'T'wou'd on'y then be tit for tat 


But if I bro'ght thy name I 'no' 

Up 'mong such chaps as Jim & Jo 

 (Tho Jim if he 'ad on'y sense) 

 (To tel' mi'te be of conseq'ence) 

For he can reed an' never spel' 

 (An' 'rite a let'er mons'orous wel') 


Was thou to hear't as likly mi''te 

'Twou'd presen'ly to'n luv' to spite 

An' wou'd so much a terify'd thee 

As you ne'er after cou'd abide me 

This is the reeson kit (don't dou't it) 

That I ne'er tel' the boys about it 


For I'll sweet kit the thing is tru' 

Do ony thing to pleasur' you 

& w'ot you do'n't like sh'u'd be 

Shal' be the last thing dun by me 

For ere I 'rit this scrauling let'er 

 (I wish I cou'd ha' 'rit a bet'er) 


Fe'ering sum peeping chaps mi''te 'no' 

I 'new not 'ardly w'ere to go 

Yet anx''us stil' to send you one 

I at last contriv'd an' pitch'd upon 

Our bushy clos' agen the link 

'Twas ther' I went wi' pen an' ink 


The ink I stole from Jimys box 

For that he 'ardly ever lo'ks 

 (& if I'm 'ang'd for doing so 

It wil' be you that caus'd the wo') 

The paper at the shop I got 

& lu'ky pitch'd upon this spot 


Wher' skilarks wis'l'd oer my head 

& morning shun so bri''te an' red 

The du on e'rey bush did hing 

An' bods of al' so'tes did so sing 

That cou'd I sing like farmer's Jo' 

 (For shep'ads all can sing you 'no') 


I'd surely sung this very morn 

An' made a song in bushy laun 

But thats all now't I can'ot sing 

Nor 'bout this lawn nor 'bout the spring 

En'uf for me cans't thou but read 

This baddy stuf quite bad indeed 


An' w'at made worser on't you see 

Was writing on't upon my 'nee 

But w'y su'h 'pologin odrotit 

The stufs for you an' we'n you've got it 

Excuse the whol' an' never wonder 

That 'tis in all a worthles' blunder 


But kitty think nor think in vain 

My daily toyls my ni'tely pa'ne 

O if thy ''art can tender be 

'Twil' never fa'le to pity me 

I must konclude ther'fore ad''u 

My ''art an' so'le's for' ever tru' 


EP I 64

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