The Kirk at Upton

Her voice shouted Roger, like throwing a stone

So give up old Soldier and let her alone

Go away with ye Roger young Man do I see

If you're an old Soldier you may march on with me.

I went with the maiden over heath and o'er plain

And when Sunday was come too, I saw her again

I saw her, and courted the sun from the West

And left my last kiss on the mole of her breast.

I kissed, and we’re married, and bedded and all

And the old Kirk at Upton the green wedding saw

For the grass it was green and our years was the same

And from morning to Evening none called us to blame




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Midwood silence

The sun beams scarce molest me wi a smile 

So thick the leafy armies gather round 

& where they do the breeze blows cool the while 

Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground 

—Full many a flower too wishing to be seen 

Perks up its head the hiding grass between— 

In midwood silence thus how sweet to be 

Where all the noises that on peace intrude 

Comes from the chittering cricket bird & bee 

Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude




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All captives lost

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 2026 eyes although written in around 1827.

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"

* halter = hangman’s noose




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The mournful tale

No words can utter & no tongue can tell 


When ploughs destroyd the green when groves of willows fell 


There once was springs when daises silver studs 


Like sheets of snow on every pasture spread 


There once was summers when the crow flower buds 


Like golden sunbeams brightest lustre shed 


& trees grew once that shelterd lubins head 


There once was brooks sweet wimpering down the vale 


The brooks no more—king cup & daiseys fled 


Their last falln tree the naked moors bewail 


& scarce a bush is left around to tell the mournful tale 


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Apology for the Poor

Every restraint now adays is laid on poverty & every liberty is given to luxury          burthens are constantly laid upon the weak & the strong are left without them – with the weak they are called useful & nessesary laws & with the rich they are considered as mean & incommod{i}ous matters never intended for them

            Thus every nessesary article with the poor is taxed & every luxury with the rich goes riot free as far as possible with the descency of parsiality to participate

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Enclosure

Thus came enclosure—ruin was its guide
But freedoms clapping hands enjoyed the sight
Though comforts cottage soon was thrust aside
& workhouse prisons raised upon the site
E'en natures dwellings far away from men—
The common heath—became the spoilers prey
. . .
No matter—wrong was right & right was wrong
& freedoms bawl was sanction to the song
. . .
As thou wert served so would they overwhelm
In freedoms name the little that is mine
& there are knaves that brawl for better laws
& cant of tyranny in stronger powers
Who glut their vile unsatiated maws
& freedoms birthright from the weak devours

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Quiet sky

The sun is sinking low & red 
A coal turned dim from gazing 
Among the oak-trees goes to bed 
& sets the woods a blazing 
The dewy leaves will quickly drop 
& daylight close his eye 
& labours rustic sounds will stop 
'Neath evenings quiet sky

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