The young brood

Among the orchard weeds from every search
Snugly & sure the old hens nest is made
Who cackles every morning from her perch
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid
Who lays her washing by & far & near
Goes seeking all about from day to day
& stung with nettles tramples everywhere
But still the cackling pullet lays away
The boy on Sundays goes the stack to pull
In hopes to find her there but naught is seen
& takes his hat & thinks to find it full
Shes laid so long so many might have been
But naught is found & all is given o'er
Till the young brood come chirping to the door

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Dank mists

Green fields no more the summer views

All sickened into ripened hues

Of brown & grey & darksome glooms

That mark the path where autumn comes

& in each woodlands buried way

The dewdrop lives for half the day

Dank mists oft creep 'twixt earth and sky

& dreaming dim the mornings eye

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The gay river

There the gay river laughing as it goes
Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides
& to the calm of heart in calmness shows
What pleasure there abides
To trace its sedgy banks from trouble free
Spots solitude provides
To muse & happy be

There ruminating neath some pleasant bush
On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease
Where I can pillow on the yielding rush
& acting as I please
Drop into pleasant dreams or musing lie
Mark the wind shaken trees
& cloud betravelled sky

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Damnd or blest

I dreamd a dream of somthing kin to fate

Which superst[it]ions blackest thoughts create

Something half natural to the grave that seems

Which deaths long trance of slumber aptly dreams

A dream of staggering horrors & of dread

Whose shadows lingerd when the dream had fled

Clinging to memory with their gloomy view

Till doubt & fancy half believd it true

That time was come or seemd as it was come

When death no longer makes the grave its home

When waking spirits leave their earthly rest

To mix forever with the damnd or blest

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Tho twas hot

Then I sought the woodland side 
Cool the breeze my face did meet 
& the sun the shade did hide 
Tho twas hot it seemed sweet 
& as while I clum the hill 
Many a distant charm I found 
Pausing on the lagging mill 
That scarcly movd its sails around 
Hanging oer a gate or stile 
Till my curious eye did tire 
Leisure was employd awhile 
Counting many a peeping spire 
While the hot sun gun to wain 
Cooling glooms fast deep[n]ing still

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… leads to joy

The crooked stile with little steps that aid

The climbing meets us & the pleasant grass

& hedgerows old with arbours ready made

For weariness to rest in pleasant shade

Surround us & with ecstasy we pass

Wild flower & insect tribes that ever mate

With joy & dance from every step we take

In numberless confusion all employ

Their little aims for peace & pleasures sake

& every summers footpath leads to joy

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Summer

The water elder is in flower
The woods are all in green
The dark oak forms a shady bower
& lovely is the scene

The wild flower of the summer fields
Clothes every swelling hill
& angels voices seem to shield
In murmurs of the rill

That whimpers o'er its winding source
As clear as morning showers
Where grass & weeds grow rank & coarse
& clouds of watered flowers
The fallen oak stripped of its bark
In the wood valley lies
Where dropping down the woodland lark
Sings summer melodies

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Image by my friend Carry Akroyd

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Ramping kecks

Where beesom weed that high wind leaves 
Blossoms & blooms above the eaves 
The old cow crib is mossed & green 
As if it just had painted been 
The ramping kecks in orchard gaps 
Shake like green neighbours in white caps 
On which the snail will climb & dwell 
For three weeks in its painted shell 
There the white nosed ‘clock a clay’ 
Red & black spot[t]ed sits all day

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Love is

Love is of every heart the painted toy

The idol of man’s worship — faces fair
Were my enchanted magic from a boy
The pouting lip the colour of the hair
Left me in raptures next of kin to care
I loved & wooed them in the field like gems

Of too much value for the clown who sung
The azure bluebells in their sapphire stems
Among green bushes low their mute bells hung
These seemed loves modest maidens dew bestrung
With blebs o' mornings glittering pearls
I loved them in the valleys where I sung

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The hedge rose

The hedge rose blossoms like thy face
Sweet red & white together
& shadows wave about the place
Where branches twist together

The leaves dance to a merry tune
& boughs wave like to billows
A flowry carpet throughout june
& concert in the willows

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All delight

The season now is all delight

Sweet smile the passing hours
& Summers pleasures at their height
Are sweet as are her flowers
The purple morning waken'd soon
The middays gleaming din
Grey evening with her silver moon
Are sweet to mingle in
While waking doves betake to flight
From off each roosting bough
While Natures locks are wet with night
How sweet to wander now

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The orchis tribes

Haunting thy mossy steeps to botanize

& hunt the orchis tribes where natures skill

Doth like my thoughts run into phantasies

Spider & bee all mimicking at will

Displaying powers that fool the proudly wise

Showing the wonders of great natures plan

In trifles insignificant & small

Puzzling the power of that great trifle man

Who finds no reason to be proud at all

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A bean field

A bean field full in blossom smells as sweet
As Araby or groves of orange flowers
Black-eyed & white & feathered to ones feet
How sweet they smell in mornings dewy hours
When seething night is left upon the flowers
& when morns sun shines brightly o'er the field
The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers
& sweet the fragrance which the union yields
To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields

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Silent balm

 

Yet still the little path winds on & on 

 Down hedgrow sides & many a pastoral charm 

 We soon forget the charm of poesy gone 

 In the still woodland with its silent balm 

 & find some other joy to dream upon 

 A distant notice of some nestling farm 

 Crowded with russet stacks that peep between 

 Hugh homestead elms or orchards squatting trees 

 Where apples shine sun tanned & mellow green 

 Home comforts for dull winters reveries

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The enemy of all

 

The frog half fearful jumps across the path

& little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath

My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive

Till past & then the cricket sings more strong

& grasshoppers in merry moods still wear

The short night weary with their fretting song

Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare

Cheat of his chosen bed & from the bank

The yellowhammer flutters in short fears

From off its nest hid in the grasses rank

& drops again when no more noise it hears

Thus natures human link & endless thrall

Proud man still seems the enemy of all

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The gay river

There the gay river laughing as it goes 
Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides
& to the calm of heart in calmness shows
What pleasure there abides
To trace its sedgy banks from trouble free
Spots solitude provides
To muse & happy be

There ruminating neath some pleasant bush
On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease
Where I can pillow on the yielding rush
& acting as I please
Drop into pleasant dreams or musing lie
Mark the wind shaken trees
& cloud betravelled sky

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A second daughter…

On the 13th June 1822 Patty and John had a second daughter, Eliza Louisa, but in that two years his world had been turned upside down, he was famous.  But there was sorrow too, as they lost a still-born baby son in June of 1821.

The photo shows a Christening Cup given to Eliza Louisa by her Godmother, Eliza Louise Emmerson for whom she of course was named.  John and Mrs Emmerson carried on a regular correspondence for many years and become firm friends.

After her sister Anna Maria's death in 1844, Eliza Louise was to marry the widowed husband, and her brother-in-law, John Sefton.  They had eight children, and a number of the 'Sefton-Clare' clan are active members of the John Clare Society, and this weblog to this day.

Sweet gem of infant fairy flowers
Thy smiles on lifes unclosing hours
Like sun beams lost in summer showers
     They wake my fears
When reason knows its sweets & sours
     Theyll change to tears

God help thee little sensless thing
Thou daisey like of early spring
Of ambushd winters hornet sting
     Hast yet to tell
Thou knowst not what tomorrows bring—
     I wish thee well

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Rut-rifted lane

The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane

Where the wild roses hang & the woodbines entwine
& the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again
Round the side of the tavern close by the sign
The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen,
In curtains the richest that ever were seen

The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain
& beating the hedges low fly the barn owls
The moon with her horns is just peeping again
& deep in the forest the dog-badger howls
In best bib & tucker then wanders my Jane
By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane

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My last shilling

O dismal disaster O troublesome lot 
What a heart rending theme for my musing Ive got 
Then pray whats the matter O friend Im not willing 
The thought grieves me sore 
Now Im drove to the shore 
& must I then spend the last shilling the shilling 
& must I then spend the last shilling 

O painful reflection thou whole of my store 
That for these three months in my breeches Ive wore 
To spend thee to spend thee that thought turns me chilling 
O must I in spight 
Of all reason this night 
A Farwell bid to my last shilling my shilling 
A Farwell bid to my last shilling

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Turnd to night

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose
Crouching & sleeping 'neath its grassy lair
& scarcely startles tho' the shepherd goes 
Close by its home & dogs are barking there
The wild colt only turns around to stare 
At passer by then knaps his hide again
& moody crows beside the road forbear 
To fly tho' pelted by the passing swain
Thus day seems turnd to night & tries to wake in vain
The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon
& flaps her grey wings in the doubting light
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon
& small birds chirp & startle with affright

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Sudden shower

Stopt by the storm that long in sullen black
From the south west stained its encroaching track
Haymakers hustling from the rain to hide
Sought the grey willows by the pasture side
& there while big drops bow the grassy stems
& bleb the withering hay with pearly gems
Dimple the brook & patter in the leaves

The song or tale an hours restraint relieves
& while the old dames gossip at their ease

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