Hidden Treasures

A little excerpt from 'Hidden Treasures' available from me this weekend at the Festival. Its contents cannnot be found in any other Clare publications.  They are the fruit of many hours research in the Clare Archives.

Have a go at transcribing Clare’s handwriting from the photo above...

I often felt my lowly lot

As couzin unto thine

& oft thy nameless sprigs have got

To wish it well with mine

When trodden down where cuddys went

Ive propt thee up agen

& tyed thee with a propping bent

Like worthless scorning men

When moles their new hills threw about

& hid thy flowers from day

Ive stooped to get my couzin out

& bared the moulds away

& know I meet thee still the same

Supprise grows warm agen

Thou little friend with out a name

Behind the hills as then

Thy little chickweed gently flowers

& out of every wind

While cows & sheep all blooms devours

They [s]till leave thee behind

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Church-yard stone

From my Chapbook No.30 ‘Mary Joyce’, available from me over next weekend at the John Clare Society Festival, as will most of my 35 published books.

A shattering poem, written 7 years after his incarceration in Northampton.  Clare's mind is ranging back to the death of his muse, Mary Joyce.

To come upon in line 9 the line “Lord how young bonny Mary burnt”, even if he is speaking of her blushes at their first meeting, is an astonishing shock for readers of Clare’s work.  Clare, possibly unconsciously, recording the manner of her death in the most shocking way imaginable.

Mary had, as Clare had been avoiding for so long, perished in the fire at her parent’s farm-house in Glinton on the 14th of July 1838.  Her grave in the churchyard of St. Benedict’s Church, Glinton was, and is, clear for all to see.

A Ballad

Love is past and all the rest
Thereto belonging fled away
The most esteemed and valued best
Are faded all and gone away

How beautiful was Mary's dress
While dancing at the meadow ball

—'Tis twenty years or more at least
Since Mary seemed the first of all

Lord how young bonny Mary burnt
With blushes like the roses hue
My face like water thrown upon't
Turned white as lilies i' the dew

When grown a man I went to see
The school where Mary's name was known
I looked to find it on a Tree
But found it on a low grave stone

Now is past—was this the now
In fine straw-hat and ribbons gay
I'd court her neath the white thorn bough
And tell her all I had to say

But all is gone—and now is past
And still my spirits chill alone
Loves name that perished in the blast
Grows mossy on a church-yard stone

(11^th November 1848)

The photo?  Mary’s church-yard stone.

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Golden groves

The new spring grass was high
The new pinks nest was seen
Where little padded lanes went bye
In hedges warm & green

When the golden evening came
& the tree tops like a flame
Glittered on the gazing eye
Like golden groves in a golden sky

The shepherd seeks the field
Where the awthorn hedges shield
The lane way to the open plain
& sets his fold of trays again

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Bonny & stout

Bonny & stout and brown without a hat
She frowns offended when they call her fat
Yet fat she is the merriest in the place
& all can know she wears a pretty face
But still she never heeds what praise can say
But does the work & oft runs out to play
To run about the yard & ramp & noise
& spring the mop upon the servant boys
When old hens noise & cackle every where
She hurries eager if the eggs are dear
& runs to seek them when they lay away
To get them ready for the market day
She gambols with the men & laughs aloud
& only quarrels when they call her proud

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The timid hare

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose
Crouching & sleeping neath its grassy lair
& scarcely startles though 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 though pelted by the passing swain
Thus day seems turned to night & tries to wake in vain

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Image by my friend Carry Akroyd

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The still water

Ive often gazed with pleasure by the edge

Of the old meadow lake floodwashed and crookd 

The water-rat slow rustling in the sedge

The fish-ring wavering in the clear Ive looked

In rapture on the mellow summer shine

Of the still water gleaming in the sun

Just wrinkled by the plash of quiet kine

Who knee-deep in the flags would drink—and done

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Hopes

Hopes sun shines sweet but who of hopes are proud

To see how soon it meeteth with a cloud

How many hopes & memorys went with thee

That forwerd looked to better destiny

Song seems not worth the muses care

Unless to grace it womans love be there

& fame is but a shadow crowned with bays

Without the cheering sun of womans grace

When thy young bosom at the tales it heard

Heavd up & panted like a timid bird

Thy splendid beauty blushed upon the sight

Like sudden frenzy of unlooked for flight

Thou haven of my trouble when I see
That lovely face the show is past with me

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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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