Remembrances (part)

Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and ducking stone
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone

By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill
On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill
And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will
To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey
And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane
With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again
Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain
It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill
And hung the moles for traitors—though the brook is running still
It runs a naked brook cold and chill

Langley Bush

O Langley bush the shepherds sacred shade
Thy hollow trunk oft gaind a look from me
Full many a journey oer the heath Ive made
For such like curious things I love to see
What truth the story of the swain allows
That tells of honours which thy young days knew
Of ‘langley court’ being kept beneath thy boughs
I cannot tell—thus much I know is true
That thou art reverencd even the rude clan
Of lawless gipseys drove from stage to stage
Pilfering the hedges of the husband man
Leave thee as sacred in thy withering age
Both swains & gipseys seem to love thy name
Thy spots a favourite wi the smutty crew
& soon thou must depend on gipsey fame
Thy mulldering trunk is nearly rotten thro
My last doubts murmuring on the zephers swell
My last looks linger on thy boughs wi pain
To thy declining age I bid farwell
Like old companions neer to meet again

He [Clare] made Swordy Well protest. Bad enough for the villagers, now being pauperised, but quite terrible for the gypsies immemorially camped at Langley bush. The Vagrancy Act of 1824, swiftly following the Enclosure Act, made it an offence, among other things, 'to be in the open air, or under a tent, or in a cart or wagon, not having any visible means of subsistence, and not giving a good account of himself, or herself'.

Ronnie Blythe - 'Vagabondage in a Native Place: John Clare and the Gypsies'

Untitled [Langley Bush is no more]

The hind that were chopping them up for his fire
Een stood like a poet awhile to admire
& when I last sat here to listen the thrush
I lookd on yon knowll at our favourite bush
Were gipseys campd round it in freedom did dwell
& a swain told its history that knew it so well
About a court yearly being kept neath its boughs
In its youth—when his forefathers herded the cows
While the bush oer our heads blooming feeble & old
Seemd listning in sorrow the story he told
& sighd as the winds summer breath flutterd bye
Its few scatterd leaves as one ready to dye
Tho the gipseys haunt still the lovd spot as before
& the swain calls it still by the name it once bore
Langley bush with its scard trunk & grey mossy bough
Is fled & the scene is left desolate now
A storm that made shepherds in dread for an hour
& boild oer the hills with its thunder & shower
Struck it down to the earth were it withering lay
Till the gipseys sought firing & hauld it away
When the shepherd returnd as the tempest was bye
From his hut of thatchd brakes that had sheltered him dry
He lookd with supprise & a fearful anoy
On the fall of his favourite known from a boy
& I thus to witness its sorrowful end
Feel a loss for its fate as I do for a friend

Langley Bush was an old whitethorn tree that stood at the junction of the parishes of Ufford, Upton, Ailsworth and Helpston and was the traditional meeting place of Langdyke Hundred and the hundred court. It was a key landmark for Clare, not least as one of the favoured haunts of the local gypsies, with whom Clare had a particular affinity. The original bush was one of the victims of the enclosure movement, as Clare notes:

“By Langley Bush I roam, but the bush have left its hill” (Remembrances)

A new Langley Bush has been planted in recent years and can be seen from King Street (the old Roman Road running north/south through the area) just before the sharp turn west towards Southey Woods after Heath Farm.

The Gipsies Evening Blaze

To me how wildly pleasing is that scene
Which does present in evenings dusky hour
A Group of Gipsies center'd on the green
In some warm nook where Boreas has no power
Where sudden starts the quivering blaze behind
Short shrubby bushes nibbl'd by the sheep
That alway on these shortsward pastures keep
Now lost now shines now bending with the wind
And now the swarthy Sybil kneels reclin'd
With proggling stick she still renews the blaze
Forcing bright sparks to twinkle from the flaze
When this I view the all attentive mind
Will oft exclaim (so strong the scene prevades)
‘Grant me this life, thou spirit of the shades!’

Song: Mary Ann Abbott

Mary Ann Abbott,
I’ve a secret or two,
But love dare not blab it
To any but you:

It’s a secret as simple
As secrets all are,
In Mary Ann’s dimples
And beautiful hair.

Dark curls of her youth
And love light o’ her eye:
In that beautiful truth
Why is Mary so shy?

Nature ripened those charms, love,
Pride never made vain,
Why not come to my arms, love,
And kiss me again?

Lay bare those twin roses
That hide in thy hair,
Thy eye’s discloses
The sweetness hid there,

For thy dark curls lie on them
Like night in the air,
Like a nightmare upon them,
As nothing were there.

Come, my sweet Mary Ann,
Let me kiss and adore thee:
There’s none in this world
That ever was before thee

(1845-6)

Maid of the Wilderness

Maid of the wilderness,
Sweet in thy rural dress,
Fond thy rich lips I press
Under this tree.

Morning her health bestows,
Sprinkles dews on the rose,
That by the bramble grows:
Maid happy be.
Womanhood round thee glows,
Wander with me.

The restharrow blooming,
The sun just a-coming,
Grass and bushes illuming,
And the spreading oak tree;

Come hither, sweet Nelly,
* * *
The morning is loosing
Its incense for thee.
The pea-leaf has dews on;
Love wander with me.

We'll walk by the river,
And love more than ever;
There's nought shall dissever
My fondness from thee.

Soft ripples the water,
Flags rustle like laughter,
And fish follow after;
Leaves drop from the tree.
Nelly, Beauty's own daughter,
Love, wander with me.

I hate to see mans strength employ'd

I hate to see mans strength employ’d
To desolate the wood
To see a favourite tree destroy’d
That has for ages stood
To see the stript oak stretch’d its length
A mournful thought the scene attends
Those seem that’s left still green in strength
To mourn their fallen friends

From "The Poets Wish"

While one snug room not over small
Containd my ness[ess]ary all
& night & day left me secure
'Mong books my chiefest furniture
With littering papers many a bit
Scrawld by the muse in fancied fit—
& curse upon that routing jade
My territorys to invade
That found me out in evil hour
To brush & clean & scrub & scour
& with a dreaded brush & broom
Disturbd my learned lumber room
Such Busy things I hate to see
Such troublers neer should trouble me
Let dust keep gathering on the ground
& roaping cobwebs dangle round
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(Inspired by Ronnie's talk at the festival)

Helpston 2008 (A personal reflection)

SO much to think about from a memorable weekend at the festival in Helpston. As always it is not just a meeting of 'literary types', but, well, fun!

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Ronnie Blythe's talk was, as always, most interesting, taking as its theme Clare's lack of paper on which to write, and how how desperate he became from time to time. How Ronnie has kept up the 'gold standard' of erudition, humour and learning is quite breathtaking -- who else would (and could) raise such a simple difficulty and be able to comment in such a fascinating way. His description (as asides) of Edmund Blunden's drinking capacity, and Charles Causley's exaggerated limp to stop the traffic, brought the house down.

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Dave Townsend's exploration of "Poets and fiddlers: musical traditions in the poetry of Clare and Hardy" was, especially for non-musicians, intriguing and informative. Made me go a purchase a copy of George Deacon's "John Clare and the folk tradition" from the Peakirk Books stall.

The Mellstock Band's evening performance of "A Midsummer Cushion - Music and Songs of John Clare" was masterful. In some ways a musical exploration of Dave's afternoon talk, mixing Clare's words and music he collected, with his journal entries. Dave's final piece, "Hopes and Ashes" (Fantasia based on Old Through the Wood Laddie in the Clare MSS) hit for me, that sense of longing and loss that I find so touching in Clare's work. As a long term fan of the band I was entranced, as it seemed were the rest of the audience. Thank you Dave.

Lovely to see Professor Eric Robinson present (from Virginia) in eloquent and amusing form. We all owe Eric a debt of gratitude for his magisterial work on the Clare corpus. He plans to be in England until August, yes, working amongst other things, on Clare manuscripts in Northampton and Peterborough. Among his revelations was an amusing description of appearing on "In Town Tonight" that long-running BBC Radio and later Television programme, with presenter Cliff Michelmore, in the late 1950s!

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Hail scenes obscure so near & dear to me

The church the brook the cottage & the tree

Still shall obscurity reherse the song

& hum your beauties as I stroll along

(Lines 47-50 of Clare's "Helpstone")

Helpstone (excerpt)

[Clare's Monument in the centre of Helpston]

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Helpstone
Hail humble Helpstone where thy valies spread

& thy mean Village lifts its lowly head

Unknown to grandeur & unknown to fame

No minstrel boasting to advance thy name

Unletterd spot unheard in poets song

Where bustling labour drives the hours along

Where dawning genius never met the day

Where usless ign'rance slumbers life away

Unknown nor heeded where low genius trys

Above the vulgar & the vain to rise

Whose low opinions rising thoughts subdues

Whose railing envy damps each humble view

Oh where can friendships cheering smiles abode

To guide young wanderers on a doubtful road.

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Away tomorrow for the John Clare Festival in Helpston... the yearly gathering of the Society and other interested folk. This year we have many treats in store:

Friday
1.30 pm
Midsummer Cushion Ceremony and presentation of poetry prizes at St Botolphs Church in Helpston

6 pm
A Clare Guided Walk around Helpston (meet at the Butter Cross in the centre of the village)

7.30 pm
An evening of folk music at the Exeter Arms barn

Saturday
10 am
Stalls open in the John Clare Primary School – with a chance to buy tickets for the evening event and the coach trip.

10.30 am
The John Clare Society AGM takes place in the marquee behind the school.

10.55
Report from the Trust on the cottage development – in the marquee

11.15 am
Ronnie Blythe’s Address – in the marquee.

12 noon until 2pm
An opportunity to browse the stalls, the exhibitions around the village, etc. There will be folk dancing around the village, and Botolphs Barn will be open. Renovation work has now started on the cottage and so that will unfortunately not be open to visitors.

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Plenty of food available in the village. You can get hot and cold foot at the Blue Bell or Exeter Arms. Or step back in time for a traditional English country lunch in the village hall (laid on by the Ladies of the Church) – it could be the best village lunch you have ever had!

2 pm
POETS AND FIDDLERS: MUSICAL TRADITIONS IN THE POETRY OF CLARE, HARDY AND BARNES ~ An illustrated talk by Dave Townsend

John Clare, Thomas Hardy and William Barnes are among the most important poets of English rural life, and all make reference to traditional music in their works. In this talk, Dave will explore their differing musical backgrounds and their varying poetic responses to the music of their own community.

3 pm
Coach tour, departing from outside the School (ticket only) – visiting Glinton, Northborough/Maxey Mill, with on board commentary (tickets on sale in the morning)

3 pm
For those not taking the coach tour there will be guided village walks – departing from the butter cross in the centre of the village.

Traditional English teas will be available in the village hall.

5.30 pm
Poetry readings in St Botolphs Church – bring along your favourite Clare poem!

7 pm – 9 pm
The Mellstock Band – in the marquee (by ticket only)

More folk music in the Blue Bell the same evening – with Ock ‘n Dough. To get a taste of their music visit their website at http://www.ockndough.co.uk/

Sunday
11 am
Family service in St Botolphs – focussing on Clare – led by the Revd Ron Ingamells (Society Committee member)

Pm
Langdyke Trust activities in the village – probably Botolphs Barn.

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Display of Clare items in the Peterborough Museum.

Young Chloe (excerpt)

Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose

And her love might be reckoned no less

But her bosom so freely bestows

That all may a portion possess.

Her smiles would be cheering to see

But so freely they’re lavished abroad

That each silly swain well as me

Can boast of the smiles she bestowed.

Her smiles and her kisses so free

Blesses all like the rain from the sky

As the blossoms love is to the bee

Each swain is as welcome as I.

And tho’ I my folly can see

Yet still must I love and adore

Tho’ I know the love whispered to me

Is a lie told to many before.

A Kiss

They may say what they will upon love
They may make what they will of a kiss
The matter is easy to prove
If truth wasn't taken amiss
‘Tis as plain as one reading a book
Like the parson reciting his text
We hear from what chapter it’s took
And the sermon of course follows next

I Pluck Summer Blossoms

I pluck Summer blossoms,
And think of rich bosoms -
The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won.
The rich valley lilies,
The wood daffodillies,
Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun.

Where I plucked thee the bluebell,
'T was where the night dew fell,
And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers;
I shook the sweet posies,
Bluebells and brere roses,
As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours.

Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos,
With freck'd lip and hooked nose,
Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods,
And water blobs, ladies' smocks,
Blooming where haycocks
May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods.

And cowslips a fair band
For May ball or garland,
That bloom in the meadows as seen by the eye;
And pink ragged robin,
Where the fish they are bobbing
Their heads above water to catch at the fly.

Wild flowers and wild roses!
'T is love makes the posies
To paint Summer ballads of meadow and glen.
Floods can't drown it nor turn it,
Even flames cannot burn it;
Let it bloom till we walk the green meadows again.

from "Summer Images"

[Image: Carry Akroyd's 'Bendy Lane']

And green lane traverse heedless where it goes
Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies
Rude battered finger post, that stooping shows
Where the snug mystery lies;
And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,
Clears up the short surprise,
And shows a peeping town.

I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn
Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours;
The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn,
Agape for honey showers;
And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew
Of morning's early hours,
Like gold yminted new;

And mark by rustic bridge, oer shallow stream,
Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled,
Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream;
Who now, in gestures wild,
Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall,
Feeling self-gratified,
Nor fearing human thrall:

Then thread the sunny valley laced with streams,
Or forests rude, and the oershadowed brims
Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams,
And streaks his listless limbs;
Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long,
Where joy's wild impulse swims
In one continued song.

from "Home Yearnings"

The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.

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I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.
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There even toil itself was play;
'T was pleasure e'en to weep;
'T was joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?

From "The Flitting"

I miss the heath, its yellow furze,
Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead
Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs
That spread a wilderness indeed;
The woodland oaks and all below
That their white powdered branches shield,
The mossy paths: the very crow
Croaks music in my native field.

I sit me in my corner chair
That seems to feel itself from home,
And hear bird music here and there
From hawthorn hedge and orchard come;
I hear, but all is strange and new:
I sat on my old bench in June,
The sailing puddock's shrill "peelew"
On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.

I walk adown the narrow lane,
The nightingale is singing now,
But like to me she seems at loss
For Royce Wood and its shielding bough.
I lean upon the window sill,
The trees and summer happy seem;
Green, sunny green they shine, but still
My heart goes far away to dream.

The Driving Boy

A thought hit me yesterday... one of those stray ones that arrest you from time to time! Benjamin Britten's Spring Symphony includes lines from Clare:

Spring Symphony Op. 44: Part 1 (4) : The Driving Boy

The texts are boisterous, and include Clare's ‘The Driving Boy’ from ‘May’. Britten's setting of the last lines of the poem are always sung with particular relish:

Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy, dirty, driving boy.

The full text from Clare:

The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And cock his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Crack[ing] his whip in starts of joy
A happy dirty driving boy

Midsummer Cushion

Vikki Clayton

Album: Midsummer Cushion (1991)Prestige Records - CDSGP008

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Vikki is regarded now almost as 'folk royalty' and is a brilliant acoustic guitarist and wonderful singer. She has recorded regularly for over 15 years and for years has been much in demand on the folk circuit. The Clare album was a real surprise find, and a treat.

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Tracks:

01 The Gardeners Bonny Daughter (Clare)

02 Mad Meg (Clare)

03 Dollys Mistake (Clare)

04 Wanton Mary (Trad.)

05 Lucys Lament (Clare)

06 Singing Jenny (Clare)

07 Proud Betsy (Clare)

08 I Love Thee (Clare)

09 The Badger (Clare)

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Her website http://www.vikkiclayton.co.uk/ :

I started to read poetry written by a Georgian poet named John Clare. I was so inspired by these beautiful poems that I was filled with the longing to sing them. When I talked to Gordon Giltrap about this he urged me to make an album. And so Midsummer Cushion was born. It was a wonderful experience to choose the poems and to set them to music. One day I'd like to repeat it. Gordon produced the album for me and if I'm not mistaken it too is a rare find! (But a good investment …)

Summer Evening

The frog half fearful jumps across the path,

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

My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,

Till past, and then the cricket sings more strong,

And 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, and from the bank

The yellowhammer flutters in short fears

From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,

And drops again when no more noise it hears.

Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,

Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.

Summer (A Sonnet)

The oak’s slow-opening leaf, of deepening hue,
Bespeaks the power of Summer once again;
While many a flower unfolds its charms to view,
To glad the entrance of his sultry reign.
Where peep the gaping, speckled cuckoo-flowers,
Sweet is each rural scene she brings to pass;
Prizes to rambling school-boys’ vacant hours,
Tracking wild searches through the meadow grass:
The meadow-sweet taunts high its showy wreath,
And sweet the quaking grasses hide beneath.
Ah, ‘barr’d from all that sweetens life below,
Another Summer still my eyes can see
Freed from the scorn and pilgrimage of woe,
To share the Seasons of Eternity.

Sonnet

[Image: Carry Akroyd's 'At Wicken Fen' (detail)]

As a boy, one of Clare's closest friends explored the country around Helpston with him, as Edmund Blunden comments, "... to the benefit of both". Much later whilst incarcerated in Northampton, he remembers his old friend and dedicates one of his sonnets to him:

Turnill, we toiled together all the day,
And lived like hermits from the boys at play;
We read and walked together round the fields,
Not for the beauty that the journey yields--
But muddied fish, and bragged o'er what we caught,
And talked about the few old books we bought.
Though low in price you knew their value well,
And I thought nothing could their worth excel;
And then we talked of what we wished to buy,
And knowledge always kept our pockets dry.
We went the nearest ways, and hummed a song,
And snatched the pea pods as we went along,
And often stooped for hunger on the way
To eat the sour grass in the meadow hay.

Crazy Nell (III of III)

At that fearful moment, so dreadfully dark,
How welcome the song of the shepherd, or lark;
How cheery to listen, and hear the dog bark,
As though the dark wood she fled fast:
But, horror of horrors, all nature was hush!
Not a sound was there heard – save a blackbird, or thrush,
That, started from sleep, flusker’d out of the bush,
Which her brushing clothes shook as they past.

Fear now truly pictur’d: she ne’er turn’d her head
Either this way or that way – straight forward she fled;
And Fancy, still hearing the horrors with dread,
On faster and fearfuller stole.
The matted leaves rustle – the boughs swiftly part,
Her hands and her face with the brambles did smart;
But, oh! the worst anguish was flet at her hear, -
Ben’s unkindness struck death to her soul.

Now glimmering lighter the forest appears,
And Hope, the sweet comforter, soften’d her fears;
Light and liberty, Darkness! thy horror endears;
Great bliss did the omen impart:
The forest, its end, and its terrors gone by,
She breath’d the free air, and she saw the blue sky;
Her own fields she knew – to her home did she fly,
And great was the joy of her heart.

Oh, prospect endearing! The village to view,
The morn sweet appearing, - and gay the cock crew,
When, mangled by brambles and dabbled in dew,
She gave a loud rap at the door:
The parents in raptures wept over their child;
She mutter’d her terrors – her eyes rolled wild –
“They dig the grave deeper! – Your Nelly’s beguil’d!”
She said, and she siled on the floor.

Poor Nell soon recover’d; but, ah! To her cost,
Her sense and her reason for ever were lost:
And scorch’d by the summer, and chill’d by the frost,
A maniac, restless and wild,
Now crazy Nell rambles; and still she will weep,
And, fearless, at night into hovels will creep. –
Fond parents! Alas, their affliction is deep,
And vainly they comfort their child.

Crazy Nell (II of III)

At length, as in fear, slowly tapp’d the wood-gate;
‘Twas Ben! – she complain’d so long painful to wait:
Deep design hung his looks, he but mumbled “Tis Late,”
And pass’d her, and bid her come on.
The mind plainly pictures that night-hour of dread,
In the midst of a wood! Where the trees over head
The darkness increased – a dungeon they spread,
And the clock at the moment toll’d one!

Nell fain would have forc’d, as she follow’d, some chat;
And trifled, on purpose, with this thing and that;
And complain’d of the dew-droppings spoiling her hat;
But nothing Ben’s silence would break.
Extensive the forest, the roads to and fro,
And this way that that way, above and below,
As crossing the ridings, as winding they go –
“Ah! What road or way can he seek?”

Her eye, ever watchful, now caught an alarm;
Lights gleam, and tools tinkle, as if nigh a farm:
“O don’t walk so fast, Ben – I’m fearful of harm!
She said, and shrugg’d closer behind.
“That light’s from my house!” ‘twas the first word she caught
From his lips, since he through the dark wood had her brought.
A house in a wood! Oh, good God! What a thought;
What sensations then rush’d on her mind!

The things, which her friends and her neighbours had said,
Afresh at that moment all jump’d in her head;
And mistrust, for the first time, now fill’d her with dread:
And as she approach’d, she could see
How better, for her, their advice to have ta’en;
And she wish’d to herself then she had – but in vain:
A heap of fresh mould, and a spade, she was plain,
And a lantern tied up to a tree.

“Here they come!” a voice whispers; - “Haste! put out the light.”
“No: dig the grave deeper!” – “Very dark is the night.”
Slow mitterings mingled. – Oh, dismal the sight!
The fate of poor Nelly was plain.
Fear chill’d through her heart – but Hope whisper’d her – Fly!
Chance seiz’d on the moment, a wind-gust blew high,
She slipt in the thicket – he turn’d not his eye,
And the grave-diggers waited in vain.

Crazy Nell (I of III)

A True Story

The sun was low sinking behind the far trees,
And, crossing the path, humming home were the bees;
And darker and. darker it grew by degrees,
And crows they flock’d quawking to rest:
When, unknown to her parents, Nell slove on her hat,
And o’er the fields hurried - scarce knew she for what;
But her sweetheart, in taking advantage and that,
Had kiss’d, and had promis’d the best.

Poor maidens! Of husbands so much they conceit,
The daisy scarce touch’d rose unhurt from her feet,
So eager she hasten’d her lover to meet,
As to make him to wait was unjust;
On the wood, dim discover’d, she fixed her eyes -
Such a queer spot to meet in – suspicions might rise;
But the fond word “a sweetheart” such goodness implies
Ah, who would a lover distrust!

More gloomy and darker – black clouds hung the wind,
Far objects diminish’d before and behind,
More narrow and narrow the circle declin’d,
And silence reign’d awfully round,
When Nelly within the wood-riding sat down;
She listen’d, and lapp’d up her arms in her gown;
Far, far from her cottage, and far from the town,
And her sweetheart not yet to be found.

The minutes seem’d hours – with impatience she heard
The flap of a leaf, and the twit of a bird;
The least little trifle that whisper’d or stirr’d,
Hope pictur’d her lover as nigh:
When wearied with sitting, she wander’d about,
And open’d the wood-gate, and gave a look out;
And fain would have halloo’d, but Fear had a doubt
That thieves might be lurking hard by.

Far clocks count eleven – “He won’t be long now,”
Her anxious hopes whisper’d – hoarse wav’d the wood bough;
“He heeds not my fears, or he’s false to his vow!”
Poor Nelly sat doubtful, and sigh’d:
The man who had promis’d her husband to be,
And to wed on the morrow – her friends all could see
That a good-for-nought sort of a fellow was he,
And they hoped nothing worse might betide.

Peterborough MS A61

John Clare was an assiduous practitioner of the sonnet form at all periods of his poetic career. The sonnets he produced in the last few years before his institutionalisation in 1837, first at High Beech and then in Northampton General Asylum, are of particular interest, since he exploited the inherent brevity of the form to express a simultaneous precision of observation and starkness of vision that he rarely achieved either before or after.

The present volume prints all the sonnets that Clare wrote at Northborough between 1832 and 1837 with the exception of those included in The Midsummer Cushion and The Rural Muse, both available from Carcanet. Northborough Sonnets allows the reader to trace the development of Clare's handling of the form in this period. They constitute fascinating vignettes of rural life in the early nineteenth century and the record of a unique poetic sensibility. They are accompanied by an introduction informative notes, and a glossary of dialect and unfamiliar words.

Sleevenotes to
Northborough Sonnets – (Carcanet 1995)

Lapt up in sacks to shun the rain & wind
& shoes thick clouted with the sticking soil
& sidelings on his horse the careless hind
Rides litherly & singIng to his toil
The boy rides foremost where the sack is gone
& holds [it] with his hands to keep it on
Then splashing down the road in journey slow
Through mire & sludge with cracking whips they go
He lays his jacket with his lunchen bye
& drinks from horses footings when adry
They pass the maiden singing at her cow
& start the lark that roosted by the plough
That sings above them all the live long day
& on they drive & hollow care away

PETERBOROUGH MS A61
Northborough Sonnets, Page 71

Pleasures of Fancy

A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,
And through this little gate that claps and bangs
Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?
Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangs
O'er crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.
The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs
That's slept half an eternity; in fear
The herdsman may have left his startled cows
For shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;
Here too the woodman on his wallet laid
For pillow may have slept an hour away;
And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,
Here sat and mused half some long summer day
While some old shepherd listened to the lay.

A 'Northborough' Sonnet

[Image: Carry Akroyd's "Cows on the Watermeadows"]

.

With hands in pocket hid & buttoned up
The clown goes jogging merrily along
The wind blows in his face & makes him stoop
& rain beats hard & stops his merry song
His shaggy coat is buttoned with a loop
With whip held up for stroke robust & strong
& hat half stuffed with straw to keep it up
He gruffly hollos whop & lobs along
He never turns but with a carless switch
Whoots up his tean that answers with a jerk
When friends are met he gives his coat a hitch
& cocks his beaver up & talks of work
To loose no time he trails his whip along
& bends it neath his arm to tie the thong

Clare did not give titles to the Northborough Sonnets, but I guess you could call this one "With hands in pocket"

I was born in Helpstone

[Clare's Cottage - Helpston]

I was born July 13, 1793, at Helpstone, a gloomy village in Northamptonshire, on the brink of the Lincolnshire fens; my mother’s maiden name was Stimson, a native of Caistor, a neighboring village, whose father was a town shepherd as they are called, who has the care of all the flocks of the village; my father was one of fate’s chancelings, who drop into the world without the honour of matrimony. HE took the surname of his mother, who to commemorate the memory of a worthless father with more tenderness of lovelorn feeling than he doubtless deserv’d, gave him his surname at his christening, who was a Scotchman by birth, and a schoolmaster by profession, and in this stay at this, and the neighboring villages, went by the name of John Donald Parker. This I had from John Cue of Ufford, an old man who in his young days was a companion and confidential to my run-a-gate of a grandfather; for he left the village and my grandmother, soon after the deplorable accident of misplaced love was revealed to him; but her love was not that frenzy which shortens the days of the victim.

The old table, which, old as it was, doubtless never was honoured with higher employment all its days then the convenience of bearing at meal times the luxury of a barley loaf, or dish of potatoes, was now covered with the rude beggings of scientifical requisitions, pens, ink, and paper, — out hour, hobbling the pen at sheephooks and tarbottles, and another, trying on a slate a knotty question in Numeration, or Pounds, Shillings and Pence; at which times my parents’ triumphant anxiety was pleasingly experienced; for my mother woud often stop her wheel, or look off from her work, to urge with a smile of the warmest rapture in my father’s face her prophesy of my success, saying ‘she’d be bound I shoud one day be able to reward them with my pen for the trouble they had taken in giving me schooling.’

And I have to return hearty thanks to a kind providence in bringing her prophesy to pass, and giving me the pleasure of being able to stay the storm of poverty and smoothen their latter days, and as a recompense for the rough beginnings of life, bid their tottering steps decline in peaceful tranquillity to their long home, the grave. Here my highest ambition was gratify’d, for my greatest wish was to let my parents see a printed copy of my poems; that pleasure l have witness’d […]

Composed 1821 First published 1931

King's School, Ottery St. Mary

I had the pleasure today of speaking for an hour to the 6th form of King's School in Ottery St. Mary about Clare and his work. Bit difficult really to cover such a prolific and complex poet in an hour, but we did hit upon the Enclosures... Gipsys... Sex & Love... Longing... and the sheer emotion he imbues into all his work. A treat for me, hope it was helpful for such a great group. Thanks SJ for the invitation.

A special excerpt just for them:

From covert hedge, on either side,
The blackbirds flutter'd terrified,
Mistaking me for pilfering boy
That doth too oft their nests destroy;
And "prink, prink, prink," they took to wing,
In snugger shades to build and sing.
From tufted grass or bush, the hare
Oft sprung from her endanger'd lair;
Surprise was startled on her rout,
So near one's feet she bolted out.
The sun each tree-top mounted o'er,
And got church-steeple height or more:
And as I soodled on and on,
The ground was warm to look upon,
it e'en invited one to rest,
And have a nap upon its breast;
But thought upon my journey's end,
Where doubtful fancies did depend,
Urg'd on my lazy feet to roam,
Like truant school-boy kept from home.

From "Holywell" by John Clare

From "The Moorhens Nest"

I hate the plough that comes to disarray
Her holiday delights—and labours toil
Seems vulgar curses on the sunny soil
And man the only object that distrains
Earths garden into deserts for his gains
Leave him his schemes of gain—tis wealth to me
Wild heaths to trace—and note their broken tree
Which lightening shivered—and which nature tries
To keep alive for poetry to prize
Upon whose mossy roots my leisure sits
To hear the birds pipe oer their amorous fits.

The Banks of Ivory (II)

"In sooth, fair maid, you mock at me, for truth ne'er harboured
ill;
I will not wrong your purity; to love is all my will:
My hall looks over yonder groves; its lady you shall be,
For on the banks of Ivory I'm glad I met with thee."

He put his hands unto his lips, and whistled loud and shrill,
And thirty six well-armed men came at their master's will,
Said he "I've flattered maids full long, but now the time is past,
And the bonny hills of Ivory a lady own at last.

My steed's back ne'er was graced for a lady's seat before;
Fear not his speed; I'll guard thee, love, till we ride o'er the
moor,
To seek the priest, and wed, and love until the day we die."
So she that was but poor before is Lady Ivory.

The Banks of Ivory (I)

'T was on the banks of Ivory, 'neath the hawthorn-scented shade,
Early one summer's morning, I met a lovely maid;
Her hair hung o'er her shoulders broad, her eyes like suns did
shine,
And on the banks of Ivory, O I wished the maid was mine.

Her face it wore the beauty of heaven's own broken mould;
The world's first charm seemed living still; her curls like hanks
of gold
Hung waving, and her eyes glittered timid as the dew,
When by the banks of Ivory I swore I loved her true.

"Kind sir," she said, "forsake me, while it is no pain to go,
For often after kissing and such wooing there comes woe;
And woman's heart is feeble; O I wish it were a stone;
So by the banks of Ivory I'd rather walk alone.

For learned seems your gallant speech, and noble is your trim,
And thus to court an humble maid is just to please your whim;
So go and seek some lady fair, as high in pedigree,
Nor stoop so low by Ivory to flatter one like me."

Scandal

She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes
To hear the news and tell the news she knows;
She talks of sluts, marks each unmended gown,
Her self the dirtiest slut in all the town.
She stands with eager haste at slander's tale,
And drinks the news as drunkards drink their ale.
Excuse is ready at the biggest lie --
She only heard it and it passes bye.
The very cat looks up and knows her face
And hastens to the chair to get the place;
When once set down she never goes away,
Till tales are done and talk has nought to say.
She goes from house to house the village oer,
Her slander bothers everybody's door.

Ballad

[Carry Akroyd’s linocut illustrating May from “The Shepherd’s Calendar 2007” published by Carcanet Publications]

When the dark ivy the thorn-tree is mounting,
Sweet shielding in summer the nest of the dove,
There lies the sweet spot, by the side of the fountain,
That's dear to all sweetness that dwells upon love:
For there setting sunbeams, ere even's clouds close 'em,
Once stretch'd a long shadow of one I adore;
And there did I meet the sweet sighs of the bosom
Of one ever dear, though I meet her no more.

And who with a soul, and a share of warm feeling,
And who with a heart that owns love for the fair,
Can pass by the spot where his first look was stealing,
Or first fondness ventur'd love-tales to declare?
Ah, who can pass by it, and notice it never?
Can long days forget on first fondness to call?
Sure time kindles love to burn brighter than ever,
And nature's first choice must be sweetest of all.

I prove it, sweet Mary, I prove it too truly;
That fountain, once sweeten'd with presence of thee,
As oft as I pass it at eve, and as duly
As May brings the time round, I think upon thee:
I go and I sit on the soft bed of rushes,
As nigh as remembrance the spot can decide;
There lonely I whisper, in sorrow's warm gushes,
That bliss when my Mary was plac'd by my side.

It grieves me to see the first open May-blossom;
For, Mary, if still 'tis remember'd by thee,
'Twas just then thou wish'd one to place in thy bosom,
When scarce a peep show'd itself open to me.
Each May with a tear are that flower and I parted,
As near that lov'd spot it first peeps on the bower;
"I've no cause to pluck thee," I sigh broken-hearted,
"There's no Mary nigh to be pleas'd with the flower."

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.

Evening

In the meadow's silk grasses we see the black snail,
Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew,
While even's 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,
And 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, and 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.

Evening

'Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,

And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,

Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot

Where his shadow reached when he first came,

And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut

Two letters that stand for love's name.

.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love,

And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,

And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,

And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,

Where nothing can hear or intrude;

It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,

In beautiful green solitude.

Spring Flowers

Bowing adorers of the gale,
Ye cowslips delicately pale,
Upraise your loaded stems;
Unfold your cups in splendour; speak!
Who decked you with that ruddy streak
And gilt your golden gems?

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride arrayed,
Your errand here fulfil;
Go, bid the artist's simple stain
Your lustre imitate--in vain--
And match your Maker's skill.

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroiderers of the carpet earth,
That stud the velvet sod,
Open to Spring's refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker and your God.

Adieu!

I left the little birds
And sweet lowing of the herds,
And couldn't find out words,
Do you see,
To say to them good-bye,
Where the yellowcups do lie;
So heaving a deep sigh,
Took to sea....

From 'A Rhapsody'

[Carry Akroyd’s linocut illustrating April from “The Shepherd’s Calendar 2007” published by Carcanet Publications]

Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone--
In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours.
Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone
To see glad butterflies and smiling flowers.
Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places,
Where not the voice of man our pleasure mars,
To see the little bees with coal black faces
Gathering sweets from little flowers like stars.

The wind seems calling, though not understood.
A voice is speaking; hark, it louder calls.
It echoes in the far-outstretching wood.
First twas a hum, but now it loudly squalls;
And then the pattering rain begins to fall,
And it is hushed--the fern leaves scarcely shake,
The tottergrass it scarcely stirs at all.
And then the rolling thunder gets awake,
And from black clouds the lightning flashes break.

The sunshine's gone, and now an April evening
Commences with a dim and mackerel sky.
Gold light and woolpacks in the west are leaving,
And leaden streaks their splendid place supply.
Sheep ointment seems to daub the dead-hued sky,
And night shuts up the lightsomeness of day,
All dark and absent as a corpse's eye.
Flower, tree, and bush, like all the shadows grey,
In leaden hues of desolation fade away.

Tis May; and yet the March flower Dandelion
Is still in bloom among the emerald grass,
Shining like guineas with the sun's warm eye on--
We almost think they are gold as we pass,
Or fallen stars in a green sea of grass.
They shine in fields, or waste grounds near the town.
They closed like painter's brush when even was.
At length they turn to nothing else but down,
While the rude winds blow off each shadowy crown.

Recollections after a Ramble (VI)

[Image: 'Lots of life in a lovely meadow' - Carry Akroyd]

Sweet the birds did chant their songs,
Blackbird, linnet, lark, and thrush;
Music from a many tongues
Melted from each dripping bush:
Deafen'd echo, on the plain,
As the sunbeams broke the cloud,
Scarce could help repeat the strain,
Nature's anthem flow'd so loud.

What a fresh'ning feeling came,
As the sun's smile gleam'd again;
Summer seem'd no more the same,
Such a mildness swept the plain;
Breezes, such as one would seek,
Cooling infants of the shower,
Fanning sweet the burning cheek,
Trembled through the bramble-bower.

Insects of mysterious birth
Sudden struck my wondering sight,
Doubtless brought by moisture forth,
Hid in knots of spittle white;
Backs of leaves the burthen bear,
Where the sunbeams cannot stray,
"Wood seers" call'd, that wet declare,
So the knowing shepherds say.

As the cart-rut rippled down
With the burden of the rain,
Boys came drabbling from the town,
Glad to meet their sports again;
Stopping up the mimic rills,
Till they forc'd their frothy bound,
Then the keck made water-mills
In the current whisk'd around.
(tbc)

Recollections after a Ramble (V)

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

And upon the dripping ground,
As the shower had ceas'd again,
As the eye was wandering round,
Trifling troubles caus'd a pain;
Overtaken in the shower,
Bumble-bees I wander'd by,
Clinging to The drowking flower,
Left without the power to fly:

And full often, drowning wet,
Scampering beetles rac'd away,
Safer shelter glad to get,
Flooded out from whence they lay:
While the moth, for night's reprief,
Waited safe and snug withal
'Neath the plantain's bowery leaf,
Where not e'en a drop could fall.

Then the clouds dispers'd again,
And full sweet it was to view
Sunbeams, trembling long in vain,
Now they 'gan to glimmer through:
And as labour strength regains
From ale's booning bounty given,
So reviv'd the fresh'ning plains
From the smiling showers of heaven.
(tbc)

Recollections after a Ramble (IV)

[Near Royce Wood, Helpston]

.

And as while I clomb the hill,
Many a distant charm I found;
Pausing on the lagging mill,
That scarcely mov'd its sails around:
Hanging o'er a gate or stile,
Till my curious eye did tire,
Leisure was employ'd awhile,
Counting many a peeping spire.

While the hot sun 'gan to wane,
Cooling glooms fast deep'ning still,
Refreshing greenness spread the plain,
As black clouds crept the southern hill;
Labour sought a sheltering place,
'Neath some thick wood-woven bower,
While odd rain-drops damp'd his face,
Heralds of the coming shower.

Where the oak-plank cross'd the stream,
Which the early-rising lass
Climbs with milk-pail gathering cream,
Crook'd paths tracking through the grass:
There, where willows hang their boughs,
Briars and blackthorns form'd a bower
Stunted thick by sheep and cows, -
There I stood to shun the shower.

Sweet it was to feel the breeze
Blowing cool without the sun,
Bumming gad-flies ceas'd to teaze,
All seem'd glad the shower to shun:
Sweet it was to mark the flower,
Rain-drops glist'ning on its head,
Perking up beneath the bower,
As if rising from the dead.

(tbc)

Good Friday

[Hares Chasing - Carry Akroyd]

The primrose looks happy in every field;
In strange woods the violets their odours will yield,
And flowers in the sunshine, all brightly arrayed,
Will bloom just as fresh and as sweet in the shade,
But the wild flowers that bring me most joy and content
Are the blossoms that glow where my childhood was spent.

The trees are all naked, the bushes are bare,
And the fields are as brown as if Winter was there;
But the violets are there by the dykes and the dell,
Where I played "hen and chickens" and heard the church bell,
Which called me to prayer-book and sermons in vain:
O when shall I see my own valleys again?

The churches look bright as the sun at noon-day;
There the meadows look green ere the winter's away;
There the pooty still lies for the schoolboy to find,
And a thought often brings these sweet places to mind;
Where trees waved and wind moaned; no music so well:
There nought sounded harsh but the school-calling bell.

(From 'My Schoolboy Days')

Recollections after a Ramble (III)

In the wood's deep shade did stand,
As I pass'd, the sticking-troop;
And Goody begg'd a helping hand
To heave her rotten faggot up:
The riding-gate, sharp jerking round,
Follow'd fast my heels again,
While echo mock'd the clapping sound,
And "clap, clap," sang the woods amain.

The wood is sweet -I love it well,
In spending there my leisure hours,
To seek the snail its painted shell,
And look about for curious flowers;
Or 'neath the hazel's leafy thatch,
On a stulp or mossy ground,
Little squirrel's gambols watch,
Dancing oak trees round and round.

Green was the shade -I love the woods,
When autumn's wind is mourning loud,
To see the leaves float on the floods,
Dead within their yellow shroud:
The wood was then in glory spread –
I love the browning bough to see
That litters autumn's dying bed –
Her latest sigh is dear to me.

'Neath a spreading shady oak
For awhile to muse I lay;
From its grains a bough I broke,
To fan the teasing flies away:
Then I sought the woodland side,
Cool the breeze my face did meet,
And the shade the sun did hide;
Though 'twas hot, it seemed sweet.

(tbc)

Recollections after a Ramble (II)

[Caster Hanglands]

.

Labour sought the water cool,
And stretching took a hearty sup,
The fish were playing in the pool,
And turn'd their milk-white bellies up;
Clothes laid down behind a bush
Boys were wading near the path,
Deeply did the maiden blush
As she pass'd the merry bath.

Some with lines the fish to catch,
Quirking boys let loose from school,
Others side the hedge-row watch,
Where the linnet took the wool:
'Tending Hodge had slept too fast,
While his cattle stray'd abroad,
Swift the freed horse gallop'd past,
Pattering down the stony road.

The gipsies' tune was loud and strong,
As round the camp they danc'd a jig,
And much I lov'd the brown girl's song,
While list'ning on the wooden brig;
The shepherd, he was on his rounds,
The dog stopt short to lap the stream,
And jingling in the fallow grounds
The ploughman urg'd his reeking team.

Often did I stop to gaze
On each spot once dear to me,
Known 'mong those remember'd days
Of banish'd, happy infancy:
Often did I view the shade
Where once a nest my eyes did fill,
And often mark'd the place I play'd
At "roly poly" down the hill.

(tbc)

Recollections after a Ramble (I)

[Clare's Cottage]

THE rosy day was sweet and young,
The clod-brown lark that hail'd the morn
Had just her summer anthem sung,
And trembling dropped in the corn;
The dew-rais'd flower was perk and proud,
The butterfly around it play'd;
The sky's blue clear, save woolly cloud
That pass'd the sun without a shade.

On the pismire's castle hill,
While the burnet-buttons quak'd,
While beside the stone-pav'd rill
Cowslip bunches nodding shak'd,
Bees in every peep did try,
Great had been the honey shower,
Soon their load was on their thigh,
Yellow dust as fine as flour.

Brazen magpies, fond of clack,
Full of insolence and pride,
Chattering on the donkey's back
Perch'd, and pull'd his shaggy hide;
Odd crows settled on the path,
Dames from milking trotting home
Said the sign foreboded wrath,
And shook their heads at ills to come.

While cows restless from the ground
Plung'd into the stream and drank,
And the rings went whirling round,
Till they touch'd the flaggy bank,
On the arch's wall I knelt,
Curious, as I often did,
To see the words the sculpture spelt,
But the moss its letters hid.

(to be continued)

Memory

I would not that my memory all should die,
And pass away with every common lot:
I would not that my humble dust should lie
In quite a strange and unfrequented spot,
By all unheeded and by all forgot,
With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh,
And nothing but the dewy morn to weep
About my grave, far hid from the world's eye:
I fain would have some friend to wander nigh
And find a path to where my ashes sleep--
Not the cold heart that merely passes by,
To read who lies beneath, but such as keep
Past memories warm with deeds of other years,
And pay to friendship some few friendly tears.

March [From Hone's 'Year Book']

[An Orange Tip - the archtype English Spring Butterfly]

.

The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb,
Oft dream of Spring, and wake before their time:
Bees stroke their little legs across their wings,
And venture short flights where the snow-drop hings
Its silver bell, and winter aconite
Its buttercup-like flowers that shut at night,
With green leaf furling round its cup of gold,
Like tender maiden muffled from the cold:
They sip and find their honey-dreams are vain,
Then feebly hasten to their hives again.
The butterflies, by eager hopes undone,
Glad as a child come out to greet the sun,
Beneath the shadows of a sunny shower
Are lost, nor see to-morrow's April flower.