Pudgy paths

O for a pleasant book to cheat the sway 
Of winter—where rich mirth with hearty laugh 
Listens & rubs his legs on corner seat 
For fields are mire & sludge—& badly off 
Are those who on their pudgy paths delay 
There striding shepherd seeking driest way 
Fearing nights wetshod feet & hacking cough 
That keeps him waken till the peep of day 
Goes shouldering onward & with ready hook 
Progs off to ford the sloughs that nearly meet 
Accross the lands—croodling & thin to view 
His loath dog follows—stops & quakes & looks

For better roads—till whistled to pursue 
Then on with frequent jump he hirkles through

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Winter occupies

Where does comforts bosom glow
Where lives he a tenant now
In snug places out of doors
Fields or woods or rushy moors
No for winter occupies 
Every bit of earth & skies
Overhead the clouds are dull
Underfoot the roads are full 
Of mire & sludge & water too
That slushes in the ploughmans shoe
& spatters from the hasty horse
That has the meadows floods to cross

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Nobody cometh to woo

On Martinmas Eve the dogs did bark
& I opened the window to see
When every maiden went by with her spark
But ne'er a one came to me
& oh dear what will become of me
& oh dear what shall I do
When nobody whispers to marry me
Nobody cometh to woo

Nones born for such troubles as I be
If the sun wakens first in the morn 
‘Lazy hussy’ my parents both call me
& I must abide by their scorn
For nobody cometh to marry me
Nobody cometh to woo

So here in distress must I tarry me
What can a poor maiden do

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Early rising

While offering help to climb the stile

A modest look & winning smile

(Love beaming in her eyes the while)

Repayd my early rising

Aside the green hills steepy brow

Where shades the oak its darksome bough

The maiden sat to milk her cow

The cause of early rising

The wild rose mingling with the shade

Stung with envy closd to fade

To see the rose her cheeks displayd

The fruits of early rising

The kiss desird against he[r] will

To take the milk pail up the hill

Seemd from resistance sweeter still

Thrice happy early rising

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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 
Yon bird that winnows in the sky 
On narrow pointed quivering wings 
These sheep that in the molehills lie 
Are all the hermit living things 
I see—and from the world away 
I feel what she can never give 
So happy at my heart to-day 
That from the world I wish to live

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Snow storm

One almost sees the hermit from the wood 
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood 
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world forgetting mood 
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs 
It seems heart aching for his solitude

Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily known for years by the strange wand 
Of winters humour changed the little croft 
Left green at night when morns loath looks obtrude
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Have gone & left us in another land

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Love’s strings

Ive heard thee sing of plaintive things

& as thy fingers swept the strings

Thy eyes have wept most tenderly

Then list awhile till I beguile

Thy heart with sorrows melody

A young heart tried a maid to move
& pined to death for very love
The maiden naught but scorn returned
Nor dropt one tear upon his bier
He died unhonoured & unmourned

I knew thou'dst mourn so sad a thing
Oh touch my Anna touch the string
With sprightlier airs nor grief endure
That heart you weep though wounded deep
Is yet not past your cure

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Clare’s Novel

Very few folk know that in the 1820s Clare was engaged in writing scenes for a novel.  After finding traces of these writings in the Archives, I quickly realised that here was a considerable amount of prose that no-one seemed to have explored, and published.  All completely ignored although there are many important passages.  Here is a taste of the series of letters in the novel between Mrs Hubbelgubbel and Mrs Leytiss, influenced by the hilarious correspondence in Smollett's ‘Humphrey Clinker’ from the late 18th century.

Miss Eleezer plays bewtifulle on the Pye anna 
forty & sings so chamminly that I feere we shell sewn 
loose thee yung leddy fur she hes so menny 
akompleeshmints & our yung sqire steys so long away 
fram Lunnun that theirs no noin whets to bee    whel 
godd giv hur grace fur shees gat weesdom enaff aireddy 
for a dukes dewchest    athou it iss I her maa maa who 
seys it     be wise der bye beetimes & let mee tell yu 
thet a duke is not a dukk minde    thet wich swimms on 
the warter    but onne off thee quall ety der bye thet iss 
nextt to thee kingg godd bless him 

(From Clare’s aborted novel ‘Memoirs of Uncle Barnaby’ still available from me, £12.50)

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