A monarch here

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

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Image by my friend Jane Air

Throwing a stone

Here is final poem in Clare’s story of Roger’s romantic adventures.  In the end Roger meets a visiting Scot (a drover’s daughter?) and finds in her something he seemed not to be able to find in the local Northamptonshire lasses.  The Kirk at Upton, incidentally is very much worth a visit.  The church (photo above) is virtually unchanged from Clare’s time, and the little village a reminder of how much of the county used to be.

Coy Maidens o' Drysail bonny Girls o' Buckhiven
Young beauty's o' Largo bonny Lasses o' Leven
I loved them the gether I loved one alone
And the rest followed with her Else I'd made her my own

Nay stop there auld Sodger Yo're nae kin o' her kind
She belongs to young Rodger our Shepherd—sae mind
Her voice shouted Rodger like throwing a stone
Sae gae on oud Sodger and let her alane

The voice it gaed through me like throwing a stone
And sair did it rue me knocking at my breast bone
Gae awa' wi' yer Rodger young Man do I see
If you'r then auld Sodger you may march on wi' me

Sae 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 were married and bedded and a'
And the auld Kirk at Upton the green Wedding saw
For the grass it was green and our years was the same
And frae morning to E'en Nane ca'd us to blame

“Her voice shouted Rodger like throwing a stone” – as I child my mother, often in the late afternoon, would call me in for tea.  I could have been anywhere as we lived in the country, so she shouted my name at the top of her voice – I have experience of what ‘the voice it gaed through me’ sounds like.  The volume, the inflection… even the memory makes shudder just a little!

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Crimmocking Cow

My favourite poem from this whole little series, I read “Crimmocking Cow” to a church full of Clare Society members at Upton Church a few years ago.  Upton being the farthest extremity of Emmonsales Heath, on what would have been the old Roman Road King Street, if it did not take a sharp right turn at Langley Bush. 

I've got an ould crimmocking Cow
And a Dairy for butter I ween
Three hens that lays eggs just enow
To boil one for Roger at een
A rusty flick hangs i' the neuk
All sooty and salt to the bone
A Frying pan ready to cook
When Roger comes courting alone

For Roger's a handsome young Man
And I am his sweetheart Kate
I give him a kiss when I can
And spend a few hours at the gate
When the sparrows go bed in the eves
And to roost goes the three speckled hens
I turn down my cotton drab sleeves
And go to kiss Roger agen

He lovs me for dearly I ken
And kisses my cheek on his breast
And dearly I love him my sen
While in his fond arms I am prest
The bee seeks the hole i' the wall
In the eves the ould sparrows go bed
To night Roger sed he would call
And fix on the day we should wed

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Baiting the trap

I’m afraid the squire proved too much of a temptation, poor Roger has had his doubts, but now has been ousted from Jenny’s affections.

The heavy thick mist hangs over the sun
The grass is all wet wi the dew
I cannot come out to thee roger till noon
Fear o' spoiling my sealskin shoe
No mists need to tarry my jenny till noon
The mist simmers thin on the hill
Sun beams getting yellow will master him soon
& ye may walk out if ye will

But she a new ribbon put on at the time
Which roger neer bought for her brow
& tho he neer knew of his jenny a crimem
Fears jealousy wisperd it now
& she had a mantle all fringed wi silk
& a new gown as smart as coud be
Far too fine for the hassard of going to milk
Full o tucks even up to the knee

& shed a green purse which a gold tassel drew
& gold in it plenty beside
Such tokens spoke more then hard labour coud do
Rich rivals had gen her the pride
So rogers fears dreamt & his dreams to pursue
To green bowers in ambush he hies
Where jane like a lady soon hazards the dew

—He wishd twas a dream of his eyes

Jane lightly skipt by wipd away the bower briar
Where roger conseald from the view
& who shoud be shooting hard by but the squire
That provd rogers dreamings too true

They kissd & they toyd upon loves pleasant lap
& thought roger true at the end
But he like a fox saw em baiting the trap
& never sought jenny agen

EP II 428

Again from the amazing 1819-20 period when Clare was, shall we say, “baiting the trap” in “loves pleasant lap” with Patty.

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‘I’m driving my hogs to a market’

Roger now has another suitor to worry about.  All’s fair in love and war they say, but he didn’t expect to be ousted by Tim Teg.

Oh me muther a'l'ays keeps running her rigs on
& s a'l'ays tongue banging poor meg
& calling one nicknames ‘base baggage’ & fixon
Becaus' Im in love wi tim teg

Caus' shes an old mizer & hes a poor codger
& I am her on'y wench meg
But she may keep mouthing bout money & roger
Ill neer turn my back on tim teg

She tells me Im driving my hogs to a market
That'll scarce buy me matches to beg
That she wornt gi me sixpence for being so forked
But Ill hazard all wi tim teg

She leads me a life like a toad neath a harrow
The deuce tak' her bother thinks meg
She prophesies nothing but trouble & sorrow
& Ill suffer all wi tim teg

& tho I may come to want salt to my porridge
& tramp out wi matches & beg
Tho a squire string his purse wi the proffers of marriage
Ill neer turn my back on tim teg

From the quite wonderful second volume of the OUP Clarendon Early Poems (my favourite of the 9 volumes) : EP II 278 (Pet MS B2 p232a-233)

Think what we would lose if this wonderful slice of Helpstone rustic life was ‘translated’ into ‘proper’ English.  I am unequivocally on the side of leaving Clare’s words exactly as he wrote them.  Priceless.

Incidentally, I wonder if Clare invented the wonderful proverb / aphorism “I’m driving my hogs to a market”?  So expressive…

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Bunting we him

Another little known 'dialect' Clare poem from the 1818-20 period, here printed exactly as Clare wrote it.  Love the Clare words... tung, claumpt, cockt and nockt, braken, mun... and that's only the first 8 lines!  Line 16 is interesting in its use of 'bunting' - this is what Professor Robinson has to say on the word, "since a bunter is a low street-woman this probably means, in a vulgar way, courting".

Jemmy might think he's won, but Roger is lurking...

Ere the church bell i the morn had tung four

Fudging old Jemmy claumpt over the moor
He cockt up his beaver & nockt at the door
& up wi ye Jenney bawls he
Deuce take him god knows I een wisht him neck braken
But mizerdly dad & old mam was awaken
Who telld me take chance when it is to be taken
So jemmys fair drudge I mun be

Tho Id promisd roger full late i' the even
& hed pledgd his honor of fairings being given
Besides invitations from ten or eleven
All better then droning old Jim
But parents full often nick love full of crosses
Old jim he coud brag of his waggons & horses
Obey 'em I mun or abide by the losses
I forcd to go bunting wi him

& pleasd wer his heart & his pockets wer lind too
& fairings he bought me what ere Id a mind too
But sly rascal roger shuffd close up behind too
& gave me a lear from his eye
Old jemmy poor lad all in vain he might bother
Hed taen me too far from the reach of my mother
I humourd him till I got loosd from my tether
Then wi roger I bid him good bye

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A dodging pace

Gaunt grey hounds now their coursing sports impart 
Wi long legs stretchd on tip toe for the chase 
& short loose ear & eye upon the start 
Swift as the wind their motions they unlace 
When bobs the hare up from her hiding place 
Who in its furry coat of fallow stain 
Squats on the lands or wi a dodging pace 
Tryes its old coverts of wood grass to gain 
& oft by cunning ways makes all their speed in vain

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John Bumkins Lucy

Clare having a bit of fun with the Northamptonshire dialect of his day.  Most of us are used to having a glossary of Northamptonshire words and phrases when we read almost any of Clare's work, but the four verses of 'John Bumkins Lucy' almost need a glossary of their own.  I particularly like lines 7 & 8 in the second verse.

"How-so-miver she beets all the wenches I kno

An' hur big-roundy bosom is witer then sno"

Well stop bill wi' dogging me so oer an' oer

I've told yah hur name—what and now summot more?
Gosh boy but thats hardish to tell yah wi out—hur
Hur looks an hur tallnes an all things about—hur

—La' us see whot is like to tha straitness of hur
Theres summot cums near to't d' yah see yender fur
Well then do yah mind me she's straiter then that
An' hur eye's an' hur hair is az blak az my hat
     O' my pritty deer Lucy az I am a sinnur
Hite op wi' old byard go on
     I'll zartinly do all I can for to win hur
     Ha az shure az my crisn'd name's jon

Hur face is not like to yahr kitts i' the town
Nor fine coking jinny's so roozy an' brown
No if yah did kno hur yah'd think em a site
Its so wite an' red sumhow I cant tell yah rite
But I think if tha rosey an' may grow'd togither
'Tw'd be summot like-it but not so fine nither
How-so-miver she beets all the wenches I kno
An' hur big-roundy bosom is witer then sno
     O' my pritty deer lucy az I am a sinnur
Hite op wi old byard go on
     I'll zartinly do all I can for to win hur
     Ha az shure az my crisn'd name's jon

Now Ive told yah about hur az much az I can
How to get hur bill-boy is the next thing to plan
Well that I can deel wi' an' soon yah shal see
Jon Bumkin a shentleman fine oz can be
An' now then to tell yah a bit o' my pride
This greezey old smokfrok I'll fost thro aside
Nex I'll change this old crap for a fine beaver hat
Drest about wi a blak ribbin bo' an' all that
     Then so wastly fine bill-boy az I am a sinnur
Hite op wi' old byard go on
     'T'will zartinly be a good shilling to win hur
     Ha oz shure oz my crisn'd name's jon

Then there'll be the waiscot an' briches an' cote
An' lite shoo's an stokin's wi' all tha' best sote
Then old women will chatter an' say ‘he looks neet
‘From tha crown of his hed to tha sole of his feet’
But I shal think more wen they cum to be mine
That better then neetnes they'll look very fine
How-so-miver it sing-i-fys nothink to me
If thee will but noistish an' do but agree
     Wi' my pritty deer Lucy—for az I am a sinnur
Hite op wi' old byard go on
     I'll zartinly do all I can for to win hur
     Ha az shure oz my crisn'd name's jon

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Three Springs

[Image:  Glinton Church and graveyard]

For some while Clare found the reports of Mary Joyce's death hard to believe, but then in late 1841 he wrote this... 

 

O Mary dear, three Springs have been

Three Summers too have blossomed here

Three blasting Winters crept between

Though absence is the most severe

Another Summer blooms in green

But Mary never once was seen

I've sought her in the fields & flowers

I've sought her in the forest groves

In avenues & shaded bowers

& every scene that Mary loves

E'en round her home I seek her here

But Mary’s absent every-where

‘Tis autumn & the rustling corn

Goes loaded on the creaking wain

I seek her in the early morn

But cannot meet her face again

Sweet Mary she is absent still

& much I fear she ever will

She died three years before, the day after Clare's birthday.

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Love is past…

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 in the brew-house at her parent’s farm 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)

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By the gate

We stand by the brook by the gate & the stile
While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky
& on her calm face dwells a sweet sunny smile
While her soul fondly speaks through the light of her eye
Sweet are the moments while waiting for Jane
T’is her footsteps I hear coming down the green lane

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Crooked shreds of footpaths

Theres somthing rich & joyful to the mind
To view through close & field those crooked shreds
Of footpaths that most picturesqly wind
From town to town or some tree hidden sheds
Where lonely cottager lifes peace enjoys
Far far from strife & all its troubled noise
The pent up artizan by pleasure led
Along their winding ways right glad employs
His sabbath leisure in the freshening air
The grass the trees the sunny sloping sky
From his weeks prison gives delicious fare
But still he passes almost vacant bye
The many charms that poesy finds to please
Along the little footpaths such as these

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A June Sonnet

Go where I will naught but delight is seen
The blue & luscious sky is one broad gleam
Of universal ecstasy the green
Rich sweeping meadows & the laughing stream
As sweet as happiness on heavens breast
Lie listening to the never-ceasing song
That day or night neer wearies into rest
But hums unceasingly the summer long
The very grass to musics rapture stirred
Dances before the breezes wanton wing
While every bush stirs with a startled bird
Who eager wakes morns dewy praise to sing
Yet mid this summer glee I cannot borrow
One joy for sadness chills them all to sorrow

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Gold or Truth and Honesty

Been thinking again about how ordinary folk across the world have been let down again and again by our so-called 'leaders'.  A few years ago I uncovered and published this poem by John Clare, written around 1827.  Does it not speak to us in 2025?  Has anything changed in those who purport to lead us in 200 years?

‘Gold is a general purchaser – buys all

‘From the high altar, palace, bench & hall

‘Down to the humble cottage hut or stall

‘Buys smiles or tears melts eyes or drys 'em – gold

‘Like Esops satire buys breath hot and cold

‘Makes out all wants & all defects supplies

‘Een the old wrinkled hag young courtier buys

‘Buys knaves an office traitors power & trust

‘High & low fliers bought with shining dust

‘Buys villany a mask hypocrisy paint

‘Buys inside devil the out side face o’ saint

‘Buys tyrants champions – cut throats, caps & knees

‘Buys lies & oaths, buys souls & consiences

‘What is it which that tempting ore cant buy

‘Buys everything but truth & honesty

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Delight is seen

Go where I will naught but delight is seen
The blue & luscious sky is one broad gleam
Of universal ecstasy the green
Rich sweeping meadows & the laughing stream
As sweet as happiness on heavens breast
Lie listening to the never ceasing song
That day or night neer wearies into rest
But hums unceasingly the summer long
The very grass to musics rapture stirred
Dances before the breezes wanton wing
While every bush stirs with a startled bird
Who eager wakes morns dewy praise to sing

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Justice?

But tis well known that justice winks at crimes

A saying thats in season at all times

Or why should the poor sinning starving clown

Meet jail & hanging for a stolen crown

While wealthy thieves with knaverys bribes endued

Plunder their millions & are not pursued

Nay at the foot of Tyburns noted tree

They do deserving deeds & still go free

Where others suffer for some pigmy cause

They all but murder & escape the laws

Skulking awhile in briberys dirty den

Then start new gilt & pass as honest men

(from 'The Parish')

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With our lines & hooks

Discoursing onward with our lines & hooks 
With some refreshments nor without some books 
Cheerd by the rural objects as we pass 
To were trees shadows keepeth green the grass 
Checking intrusions of the summer suns 
There drop us down close were the river runs 
In sight of rural sounds & pleasing strife 
That warms the laughing landscape into life 
& while in cheerfull mirth as we prepare 
Our sporting things & bait our angles there 
With flye or fish of artificial forms 
To shun the anguish of the wreathing worms 
Feel warm hopes glow with earnest eagerness 
To mark the signs that promise us success

Image by my friend Mike Hobson

Sat & mused

A path old tree goes by thee crooking on
& through this little gate that claps & bangs
Against thy rifted trunk what steps hath gone
Though but a lonely way yet mystery hangs
Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here
The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs
Thats slept half an eternity in fear
The herdsman may have left his startled cows
For shelter when heavens thunder voice was near
Here too the woodman on his wallet laid
For pillow may have slept an hour away
& poet pastoral lover of the shade
Here sat & mused half some long summer day
While some old shepherd listened to the lay

Say what is love

Say What Is Love—To Live In Vain
To Live & Die & Live Again
Say What Is Love—Is It To Be
In Prison Still & Still Be Free
Or Seem As Free—Alone & Prove
The Hopeless Hopes of Real Love
Does Real Love On Earth Exist
Tis Like A Sun beam On The Mist
That Fades & No Where Will Remain
& Nowhere Is Oertook Again
Say What Is Love—A Blooming Name
A Rose Leaf On The Page Of Fame
That Blooms Then Fades—To Cheat No More
& Is What Nothing Was Before
Say What Is Love—What E'er It be
It Centres Mary Still With Thee

From ‘Child Harold’

The heron

[tThe] heron stalking solitary thing 
Mount up into high travel far away 
& that mild indecision hanging round 
Skys holding bland communion with the ground 
In gentlest pictures of the infant day 
Now picturing rain—while many a pleasing sound 
Grows mellower distant in the mealy grey 
Of dewy pastures & full many a sight 
Seems sweeter in its indistinct array 
Than when it glows in mornings stronger light

Image by my friend #JohnAbbott

Natures glee

"Tootle tootle tootle tee"
Can it be
Pride & fame must shadows be
Come and see 
Every season own her own
Bird & bee
Sing creations music on
Natures glee
Is in every mood & tone
Eternity

Summer

The oaks slow-opening leaf of deepening hue
Bespeaks the power of Summer once again
While many a flower unfolds its charms to view
To glad the entrance of his sultry reign
Where peep the gaping speckled cuckoo-flowers
Sweet is each rural scene she brings to pass
Prizes to rambling school-boys vacant hours
Tracking wild searches through the meadow grass
The meadow-sweet taunts high its showy wreath
& sweet the quaking grasses hide beneath
Ah ‘barr’d from all that sweetens life below
Another Summer still my eyes can see
Freed from the scorn & pilgrimage of woe
To share the Seasons of Eternity

Spring love

When Jimmy did leave me the thorns wer in blossom
Three years have gone bye but I think on the day
I stoopt for a cowslip to stick in my bosom
While he from the bush got a branch of the may
& when we had done wi our vows & our parling
My heart when I think ont wi doubtfulness burns
He held it to me & he calld me his darling
Saying take this & keep it till Jimmy returns

A keep sake so odd did he mean to abuse me
& give me the thorn that his scorn I might see
But how foolish girl—coud he mean to ill use me
When he rubd off the pricks ere he gave it to me
We parted good friends & he hugld me dearly
& telld me hed neer gi me cause for a pain
& so coud I think were his last vow sincerly
Saying go where I will my heart stick to my Jane

Written in Clare's wonderful Northamptonshire dialect, with a word Clare no doubt learned from his gypsy friends   Written in what a recent anonymous 'scholar' writing of Clare in a recent paper called 'the stark "textual primitivism" of the Oxford edition', in which this poem may be found (EP II 208) in precisely the way that Clare wrote it (I've examined the manuscript).  An amazingly ignorant comment showing his/her total disregard for the incredible work of the lifetime of scholarship that the 9 volumes of the OUP Clarendon editions represents

Summer evening

The frog half fearful jumps across the path
& little mouse that leaves its hole at eve 
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive
Till past & then the cricket sings more strong
& grasshoppers in merry moods still wear 
The short night weary with their fretting song
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare
Cheat of his chosen bed & from the bank 
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears 
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank
& drops again when no more noise it hears
Thus natures human link & endless thrall
Proud man still seems the enemy of all

Storm

At length it comes among the forest oaks
With sobbing ebbs & uproar gathering high
The scared hoarse raven on its cradle croaks
& stock dove flocks in hurried terrors fly
While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the sky
The hedger hastens from the storm begun
To seek a shelter that may keep him dry
& foresters low bent the wind to shun
Scarce hear amid the strife the poachers muttering 

I wander through

The day is all round me the woods & the fields
& sweet is the singing their birds music yields
The waterfall music theres none such at home
It spreads like a sheet & then falls into foam
The meadows are mown what a beautiful hue
There is in green closes as I wander through
A green of all colours yellow brown & dark grey
While the footpaths all darkly goes winding away
Creeping onto a foot-brig that crosses a brook
Or a gate or a stile & how rustic they look
Some leaning so much that the maidens will go
Lower down with their buckets & try to creep through
There is nothing more sweet in the fields & the sun
Than those dear little footpaths that oer the fields run