Harvest home

As rests warm rapture rousd the rustics lay
The thread bare ballad from each quavering tongue
As ‘peggy bond’ or the ‘sweet month of may’
As how he joyd to hear each ‘good old song’
That on nights pausing ear did echo loud & strong
The muse might sing too for he well did know
The freaks & plays that harvest home doth end
How the last load is crownd wi boughs & how
Wi floating ribbons diznd at their end
The swains & maids wi fork & rake attend
& how the children on the load delight
Wi shouts of harvest home their throats to rend
& how the dames peep out to mark the sight
& all the feats that crown the harvest supper night

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Harvest morn

Cocks wake the early morn wi' many a Crow
Loud ticking village clock has counted four
The labouring rustic hears his restless foe
& weary bones & pains complaining sore
Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor
Some busy 'gin to team the loaded corn
Which night throng'd round the barns becrouded door
Such plentious scenes the farmers yards adorn
Such busy bustling toils now mark the harvest morn

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Secret shower

How beautiful & fresh the pastoral smell 

    of tedded hay breathes in this early mom
Health in these meadows must in summer dwell
    & take her walks among these fields of corn
I cannot see her yet her voice is out
    On every breeze that fans my hair about
Although the sun is scarcely out of bed
    & leans on ground as half awake from sleep
The boy hath left his mossy-thatched shed
    & bawls right lustily to cows and sheep

Oor taken with the woodbines overspread
    Climbs up to pluck them from their thorny bower
Half drowned by dropples pattering on his head
    From leaves bemoistened by nights secret shower

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Like an april storm

The cleanly maiden thro the village streets
In pattens clicks down causways never drye
While eaves above head drops—where oft she meets
The school boy leering on wi mischiefs eye
Trying to splash her as he hurrys bye
While swains afield returning to their ploughs
Their passing aid wi gentle speech apply
& much loves rapture thrills when she allows
Their help wi offerd hand to lead her oer the sloughs
The hedger soakd wi the dull weather chops
On at his toils which scarcly keeps him warm
& every stroke he takes large swarms of drops
Patter about him like an april storm

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Thy gentle stream

Upon thy winding side wild gwash I lie 

Viewing with curious eye the silver bream 

Taking vaunting springs to trap the thoughtless flye 

That heedless dances on thy gentle stream 

The black snail wakens from the swoons of day 

& from the boughs that nestle by thy side 

The light wing'd moths steal out again to play 

Crossing with hasty wing thy rippling tide

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Waters creep

& here the shepherd with his sheep
& with his lovley maid
Together where these waters creep
In loitering dalliance playd 

& here the Cow boy lovd to sit
& plate his rushy thongs
& dabble in the fancied pit
& chase the Minnow throwngs

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The Gwash

The bridge over the Gwash at Great Casterton

Where winding gash* wirls round its wildest scene
On this romantic bend I sit me down
On that side view the meads their smoothing green
Edg'd with the peeping hamlets checkering brown
Here the steep hill as dripping headlong down
While glides the stream a silver streak between
As glides the shaded clouds along the sky
Brightning & deep'ning loosing as they're seen

In light & shade—so when old willows lean
Thus their broad shadow—runs the river bye
With tree & bush repleat a wilderd scene
& mossd & Ivyd sparkling on my eye—
O thus wild musing am I doubly blest
My woes unheeding—& my heart at rest

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

*Gwash, where Clare met his wife-to-be Patty, “a fair girl of eighteen, slender, with regular features, and pretty blue eyes".  They were married in March 1820 in the church of St Peter and St Paul, Great Casterton, close by where the Gwash crosses under the Great North Road.  Patty was born in Tickencote, the nearby hamlet, the river Gwash virtually joins the two villages together.  How pleasant is must have been, walking together on the riverside path on a summer’s day.  Alas now ‘enclosed’ and thus ‘private’ land.

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