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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