O once I loved a
pretty girl, and dearly love her still;
I courted her in
happiness for two short years or more.
And when I think
of Mary it turns my bosom chill,
For my little of
life's happiness is faded and is o'er.
O fair was Mary
Littlechild, and happy as the bee,
And sweet was
bonny Mary as the song of forest bird;
And the smile
upon her red lips was very dear to me,
And her tale of
love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard.
O the flower of all
the forest was Mary Littlechild;
There's few could
be so dear to me and none could be so fair.
While many love
the garden flowers I still esteem the wild,
And Mary of the
forest is the fairest blossom there.
She's fairer than
the may flowers that bloom among the thorn,
She's dearer to
my eye than the rose upon the brere;
Her eye is
brighter far than the bonny pearls of morn,
And the name of
Mary Littlechild is to me ever dear.
O once I loved a
pretty girl. The linnet in its mirth
Was never half so
blest as I with Mary Littlechild--
The rose of the
creation, and the pink of all the earth,
The flower of all
the forest, and the best for being wild.
O sweet are dews
of morning, ere the Autumn blows so chill,--
And sweet are
forest flowers in the hawthorn's mossy shade,
But nothing is so
fair, and nothing ever will
Bloom like the
rosy cheek of my bonny Forest Maid.
J.L. Cherry
Life and Remains of John Clare
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment