The king fisher

Look theres two splendid feathered things
Sits on that grey & stretching bough
That from the leaning willow hingsf
-- Half oer the gulling flood below
Like foreign birds their feathers shine
In splendours rich & varied hue
The peacocks tail is scarce as fine
--Rich shaded orange green & blue
No finer birds are known to flye
Then these gay dressed king fishers are
Who live on fish & watch the fry
Of Minnows nimbly passing there
& there theyll sit whole hours away
In that same lone & watching spot
& when they dart to seize their prey
Drop down as sudden as a shot

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Ignorance & wealth

Ye meadow blooms ye pasture flowers farwell

Ye banishd trees ye make me deeply sigh

Inclosure came & all your glories fell

Een the old oak that crownd yon rifld dell

Whose age had made it sacred to the view

Not long was left his childerns fate to tell

Where ignorance & wealth their course pursue

Each tree must tumble down—old ‘lea close oak’ adieu

Lubin beheld it all & deeply paind

Along the railed road woud muse & sigh

The only path that freedoms rights maintaind

The naked scenes drew pity from his eye

Tears dropt to mem'ry of delights gone bye

The haunts of freedom cowherds wattld bower

& shepherds huts & trees that tow[e]red high

& spreading thorns that turnd a summer shower

All captives lost & past to sad oppresions power

The 'legal robbery' of the enclosures forceably reminded Clare of what has become known in English history as the Norman Yoke.  So here is a piece he wrote under that title to further explain his views of what he was witnessing in his own time.  It might well seem rather familiar to 2025 eyes.

The Norman Yoke

"Men make a boast of pedigree     as well might the descendants of Richard Turpin boast of theirs     for both honours spring from robbery & spoilation – what was William the Conqueror but a robber by wholesale & what were his followers but high way men     by his authority receiving tithes by their expertness at plunder    for which Turpin (a more noble plunderer if absence from fear or dareing achievements make one) received a halter* because he dared to rob & could show only his courage for the liscence"

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Even love

In the meadows silk grasses we see the black snail

Creeping out at the close of the eve sipping dew
While evens one star glitters over the vale
Like a lamp hung outside of that temple of blue
I walk with my true love adown the green vale
The light feathered grasses keep tapping her shoe
In the whitethorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale
& the blades of the grasses are sprinkled with dew

If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck
As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose
Her whisper none hears & the kisses I take
The mild voice of even will never disclose
Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek
That blushed like the rose in the hedge hung with dew
Her whisper was fragrance her face was so meek
The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew

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Eden

I sat beside the pasture stream
When Beautys self was sitting by
The fields did more than Eden seem
Nor could I tell the reason why
I often drank when not adry
To pledge her health in draughts divine
Smiles made it nectar from the sky
Love turned een water into wine
O Poesy is on the wane
I cannot find her face again

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April

The infant april joins the spring
And views its watery skye
As youngling linnet trys its wing
And fears at first to flye
With timid step she ventures on
And hardly dares to smile
The blossoms open one by one
And sunny hours beguile
But finer days approacheth yet
With scenes more sweet to charm
And suns arive that rise and set
Bright strangers to a storm
And as the birds with louder song
Each mornings glory cheers
With bolder step she speeds along
And looses all her fears
In wanton gambols like a child
She tends her early toils
And seeks the buds along the wild
That blossom while she smiles
And laughing on with nought to chide
She races with the hours
Or sports by natures lovley side
And fills her lap with flowers

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Image by my friend #CarryAkroyd

The walk

The faint sun tipt the rising Ground 
No Blustry wind—the air was still 
The Blue mist thinly scatterd round 
Vergd along the distant hill 
Delightful morn—from labour free 
I jocund met the southwest gale 
While here & there a busy bee 
Humd sweetly oer the flowery vale 

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Image by my friend #JohnAbbott

The nightingale

This is the month the nightingale clod brown
Is heard among the woodland shady boughs
This is the time when in the vale grass-grown
The maiden hears at eve her lovers vows
What time the blue mist round the patient cows
Dim rises from the grass & half conceals
Their dappled hides I hear the nightingale
That from the little blackthorn spinney steals
To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale
& still unseen sings sweet the ploughman feels
The thrilling music as he goes along
& imitates &  listens while the fields
Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong
Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song

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Bluebells

Bluebells how beautifull & bright they look 
Bowed oer green moss & pearled in morning dew 
Shedding a shower of pearls as soon as shook 
In every wood hedgegap theyre shineing through 
Smelling of spring & beautifully blue 
—Childhood & Spring how beautifully dwells 
Their memories in the woods we now walk through 
O balmy days of spring in white thorn dells 
How beautifull are woods & their bluebells

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Little trotty wagtail

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain,
And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again.
He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly,
And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.

Little trotty wagtail he waddled in the mud,
And left his little footmarks, trample where he would.
He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail,
And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.

Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about,
And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out;
Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye,
So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good bye.

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Woodlands

A fragment

& then he roams the woodlands 
As happy as a moth on summers nights 
Now pausing thro the brambles prickly twine 
Where midnight lingers in the leafy mine 
& now thro smooth barked hazels mellow green 
That leave a pleasant open spot between 
Thro flowers & grass & many crippled brake 
Then garden clumps as nature wills to make 
Where oft he stands & pauses & admires 
& feels that happiness that never tires 
Now marking little tiny creeping things 
Creep on the leaves & then the coloured wings 
Of startled moth & eager butter flye 
That puzzled in the leaves & by & bye 
Mounts in the oaks & then the open sky

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Singing at the plough

Here morning in the ploughmans songs is met
Ere yet one footstep shows in all the sky
& twilight in the east a doubt as yet
Shows not her sleeve of grey to know her bye
Woke early I arose & thought that first
In winter time of all the world was I
The old owls might have hallooed if they durst
But joy just then was up & whistled bye
A merry tune which I had known full long
But could not to my memory wake it back
Until the ploughman changed it to the song
O happiness how simple is thy track
Tinged like the willow shoots the easts young brow
Glows red & finds thee singing at the plough

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A footpath winding

Ive oft been glad at heart to see 
A footpath winding through the grass 
Oer narrow stiles neath spreading tree 
Not wide enough for two to pass 
But now no ownership I fear 
Nor path to keep nor stile to climb 
I feel myself a monarch here 
My very fancies grow sublime

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Thy spirit visits

An incomplete rhyming scheme perhaps, but what fun!

Personally I think Clare’s pencil simply ran away with him, 

and sometimes he never went back to ‘correct’.

Thy spirit visits me like dew 
That glistens on the flowers 
Falling in the morning blue 
     & in the evening hours 

The wild flowers have a feeling 
Oer my calm senses stealing 

& loves soft dreams revealing 
     Seem wispering from the bowers

The foxgloves freckled bells 
That blossom by the wood 
& in the forrest dells 
     In the midst of solitude 

There I hear my lover call 
Where the whitethorn forms a wall 
& the foxglove blossoms tall 
     In the tears of eve bedewed 

Spirit thou of every place 
Where loves memories are left 
Places green as years of grace 
     Where hope lives of love bereft 

My love lives in these green places 
Where woodbine the white thorn embraces 
Far from the crowd of worldly faces 
     Here loves spirit still is left

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Winding ways

Theres somthing rich & joyful to the mind 
To view through close & field those crooked shreds 
Of footpaths that most picturesqly wind 
From town to town or some tree hidden sheds 
Where lonely cottager lifes peace enjoys 
Far far from strife & all its troubled noise 
The pent up artizan by pleasure led 
Along their winding ways right glad employs 
His sabbath leisure in the freshening air 
The grass the trees the sunny sloping sky 
From his weeks prison gives delicious fare 
But still he passes almost vacant bye 
The many charms that poesy finds to please 
Along the little footpaths such as these 

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Birds & all both great and small

Not only wood-larks spare but all 

From sparrows to the wren 
For birds & all both great and small 
Are sent for use to men 
Altho some times by hung

For faults so small their blood to shed 
Is cruel & severe 
For the few corns from you they take 
Their Songs do thrice repay 
Then spare them all for Musicks sake 
And let 'em fly away

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Images by my friend #CarryAkroyd

Ladybird

Ladybird ladybird where art thou flown 

Thou wert here in the morning before the sun shone 

Just now up the bowl o' the damson tree 

You passed the gold lichen & got to the grey 

Ladybird ladybird where can you be 

You climb up the tulips & then fly away 

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Its little brig

I love the verse that mild & bland
Breathes of green fields & open sky
I love the muse that in her hand
Bears flowers of native poesy
Who walks nor skips the pasture brook
In scorn but by the drinking horse
Leans o'er its little brig to look
How far the sallows lean across

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Image by my friend #RachelBurch

Rain-drops

And full sweet it was to look
How clouds misted o'er the hill
Rain-drops how they dimp'd the brook
Falling fast & faster still
While the gudgeons darting by
Cring'd 'neath water-grasses shade
Startling as each nimble eye
Saw the rings the dropples made

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The little pond

I love the little pond to mark at spring
When frogs & toads are croaking round its brink
When blackbirds yellow bills gin first to sing
& green woodpecker rotten trees to clink
I love to see the cattle muse & drink
& water crinkle to the rude march wind
While two ash dotterels flourish on its brink
Bearing key bunches children run to find
& water buttercups they're forced to leave behind

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Winter is past

Winter is past—the little bee resumes

Her share of sun & shade & oer the lea

Hums its first hymnings to the flowers perfumes

& wakes a sense of gratfulness in me

The little daisey keeps its wonted pace

Ere march by april gets disarmd of snow

A look of joy opes on its smiling face

Turnd to that power that suffers it to blow

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Regret

O take this world away from me
Its strife I cannot bear to see
Its very praises hurt me more
Than een its coldness did before
Its hollow ways torment me now
And start a cold sweat on my brow
Its noise I cannot bear to hear
Its joy is trouble to my ear
Its ways I cannot bear to see
Its crowds are solitudes to me

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The yellowhammers nest

When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen
& yellowhammers gathering the dry bents
By the dyke side on stilly moor or fen
Feathered with love & natures good intents
Rude is the tent this architect invents
Rural the place with cart ruts by dyke side
Dead grass horse hair & downy-headed bents
Tied to dead thistles--she doth well provide

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Winding footpath

Wereover many a stile neeth willows grey
The winding footpath leaves the public way
Free from the dusty din & ceasless chime
Of bustling waggons in the summer time
Crossing a brook—were braving storms in vain

Two willows fell & still for brigs remain
Corn field & clover closes leading down
In peacful windings to the neighbouring town

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Yellow woods

The storm from which the shepherd turns 
To pull his beaver down 
While he upon the heath sojourns 
Which autumn bleaches brown 
Is music aye & more indeed 
To those of musing mind 
Who through the yellow woods proceed 
& listen to the wind

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Image by my friend #CarryAkroyd

Bonny March

The bonny March morning is beaming

   In mingled crimson & grey

White clouds are streaking and creaming

   The sky till the noon of the day

The fir deal looks darker and greener

   And grass hills below look the same

The air all about is serener

   The birds less familliar and tame

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Image by my friend #RachelBurch

Kine

Of poesy full many charms are thine

Green vales & tinkling brooks & pastures thronged with kine

& thy old woods as yet can claim & call

Thy native oak thy own that proudly towers

Boast of thy nation & the dread of all

& though the slighting sun & chilly showers

.

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Image by my friend #JohnAbbott

Secluded haunts

Trees sheltering round it hide returning rooks
& twittering swallows seek its chimney nooks
In peace the sparrow chirps its joyous calls
& takes the feather to the crevisd walls
Nor fails the harmless robin & the wren
To seek such sweet secluded haunts agen
Beneath the eaves the martins still repair
& yearly build their mortard dwelling there

.

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