To Anna, three years old

My Anna, summer laughs in mirth,

  And we will of the party be,

And leave the crickets in the hearth

  For green fields' merry minstrelsy.

I see thee now with little hand

  Catch at each object passing bye,

The happiest thing in all the land

  Except the bee and butterfly.

       *       *       *       *       *

And limpid brook that leaps along,

  Gilt with the summer's burnished gleam,

Will stop thy little tale or song

  To gaze upon its crimping stream.

Thou'lt leave my hand with eager speed

  The new discovered things to see--

The old pond with its water weed

  And danger-daring willow tree,

Who leans an ancient invalid

  Oer spots where deepest waters be.

In sudden shout and wild surprise

  I hear thy simple wonderment,

As new things meet thy childish eyes

  And wake some innocent intent;

As bird or bee or butterfly

  Bounds through the crowd of merry leaves

And starts the rapture of thine eye

  To run for what it neer achieves.

But thou art on the bed of pain,

  So tells each poor forsaken toy.

Ah, could I see that happy hour

  When these shall be thy heart's employ,

And see thee toddle oer the plain,

  And stoop for flowers, and shout for joy.

Poems: Chiefly from Manuscript

ed. Edmund Blunden and Alan Porter

(London: Cobden-Sanderson, 1920)

The Flower Pot

or Morality and Reflection

On a fine Sunday morning the house swep so clean
And a flower pot for ornament plac'd
Compos'd of oak branches so spreading and green
Intermingled with blue-bells the window-board grac'd.
To view their gay colors I rather inclin'd
While resting myself near the wall
Which soon brought morality into my mind
And thus I had model'd their fall.

‘Tho your charms seem so tempting ye gay blooming flowers
‘As to make every stranger look on
‘Yet if I stay here three or four passing hours
‘I shall see you all whither'd and gone!’
But afterwards thinking on what I had said
Reflection soon made me to sigh
And once more reviewing their sweet smelling shade
I suppos'd from the flowers this reply.

‘Vain unthinking mortal how ready thou'rt prone
‘To condemn the short date of our flowers
‘But stop with thy morals—turn the case to thine own!
‘And thou'l find it a deal worse than our's.’
‘For go where thou pluck't us next year o'er the ground
‘There thou'lt find us as gay as before!
‘But when once moralizer thy spring's gone its round
‘It never will blossom no more!’

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Song: Mary leave thy lowly cot

Mary leave thy lowly cot

When thy thickest jobs are done
When thy friends will miss the[e] not
Mary to the pasture run
Where we met the other night
Neath the bush upon the plain
Be it dark or be it light
Ye may guess we'll meet again
Shoud ye go or shoud ye not
Never shilly shally dear
Leave yer work & leave yr cot
Nothing need ye doubt or fear
Chaps may tell ye lies in spite
Calling me a roving swain
Think what passd the other night
Then Ill bound yell meet again

Poems: Chiefly from Manuscript

ed. Edmund Blunden and Alan Porter

(London: Cobden-Sanderson, 1920)

John Clare 'gold medal' at Chelsea

Adam Frost the designer of the 'Clare' themed garden...

Click on the link below...
http://www.stamfordmercury.co.uk/news/local/adam-frost-takes-gold-at-chelsea-flower-show-for-garden-inspired-by-poet-john-clare-1-3868820

from "Helpstone"

Oh happy Eden of those golden years

Which memory cherishes & use endears
Thou dear beloved spot may it be thine
To add a comfort to my life[s] decline
When this vain world & I have nearly done
& times drain'd glass has little left to run

When all the hopes that charm'd me once are oer
To warm my soul in extacys no more

By dissapointments prov'd a foolish cheat
Each ending bitter & beginning sweet
When weary age the grave a r[e]scue seeks
& prints its image on my wrinkl'd cheeks
Those charms of youth that I again may see
May it be mine to meet my end in thee
& as reward for all my troubles past
Find one hope true to die at home at last

So when the Traveller uncertain roams
On lost roads leading every where but home
Each vain desire that leaves his heart in pain
Each fruitless hope to cherish it in vain
Each hated track so slowly left behind
Makes for the home which night denies to find
& every wish that leaves the aching breast
Flies to the spot where all its wishes rest

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

The Pansy

It does me good, thou flower of spring,

Thy blossoms to behold;
Thou bloom'st when birds begin to sing,
In purple and in gold.
Along the garden-beds so neat
Thy flowers their blooms display,
When sparrows chirp and lambkins bleat
And hopes look up for May.

Then Emma thinks the heart's-ease blooms
When she the pansy sees;
But I see sleep among the tombs,
With heart that's ill at ease,
That asks for what it's lost and loved—
A quiet home and friends,
Where nature's feelings were approved
And peace made life amends.

Where love was all I had to sing,
And there these pansy flowers
Came shining in the dews of spring
To cheer the sunny hours.
But years may pass, as they have passed,
And I may hope in vain,
With hopes that linger to the last,
To see them bloom again.

The fairest flower that ever bloomed,

Or garden ever blest,
Looks cold to care, and ne'er was doomed
To ease the heart's unrest.
The heart's-ease in her happy hour
Might Emma's fancy please,
But life will often pluck the flower
And feel but ill at ease.

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864,

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

from "The Shepherd's Calendar - May"

Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run

And ‘iron weed’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi pricks like thistles round
Thick set that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold

And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dryd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain

And boys that mark them shut so soon
Will call them ‘John go bed at noon’
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottld flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and whey
For washes on an holiday

To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
Ith middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers their toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lonly joys

That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there

My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers

The Shepherd's Calendar, with Village Stories, and Other Poems (1827) - 'May' (lines 147 to 194)

Song on Tobacco

Some sing about love in their season of roses,

But love has in sorrow no blossoms to wear;
So I'll sing tobacco, that cheers and composes,
And lulls us asleep in our trouble and care.

So here's to tobacco, the Indian weed,
The peaceful companion through trouble and strife;
May it prove every smoker's best friend in his need,
And be to his heart a restorer through life.

There's the husbandman hourly tormented with care,
By his daily companion, a troublesome wife;
But a pipe of tobacco will soothe his despair,
And bring him sunshine in the shadows of life.

Then here's to tobacco, the Indian weed,
May it bless honest smokers with peace to the end,
For such a companion is friendship indeed,
Since it proves in the midst of all trouble a friend.

The statesman, the lawyer, the parson will find,
When business oppresses and sorrow grows ripe,
To steer clear of follies and strengthen the mind,
There's nothing like leisure and smoking a pipe.

So here's to that cheering tobacco once more;
May each honest smoker prove blest with the weed,
May it mend broken hopes and lost pleasures restore,
And always prove dear as a friend in his need.

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

from "The Wish"

[My garden in East Devon - click on the image for the full effect]

And now a garden pland with nicest care
Should be my next attention to prepare;
For this I'd search the soil of different grounds
Nor small nor great should mark its homley bounds:
Between these two extreems the plan should be
Compleat throughout and large enough for me;
A strong brick wall should bound the outward fence
Where by the suns allcheering influence
Walltrees should flourish in a spreading row
And Peach and Pear in ruddy lustre glow.
A five foot bed should follow from the wall
To look compleat or save the trees withall
On which small seeds for sallading I'd sow
While curl-leaf Parsley should for edges grow.
My Garden in four quarters I'd divide
To show good taste and not a gaudy pride;
In this the middle walk should be the best
Being more to sight exposed than the rest

How beautiful May and its morning comes in!

[A beautiful, May day poem - largely unknown]

How beautiful May and its morning comes in!

The song of the maidens you hear them begin,
To sing the old ballads while cowslips they pull,
While the dew of the morning fills many pips full.
The closes are spangled with cowslips like gold,
Girls cram in their aprons what baskets can't hold;
And still gather on to the heat of the day,
Till force often throws the last handful away.

Then beneath an old hawthorn they sit one and all,
And make the May garlands and round cuck a ball
Of cowslips and blossoms so showy and sweet,
And laugh when they think of the swains they shall meet.
Then to finish the garland they trudge away home,
And beg from each garden the flowers then in bloom;
Then beneath the old eldern, beside the old wall,
They sit out to make it, maids, misses, and all.

The ribbons the ploughmen bought maids at the fair,
Are sure to be seen in a garland so fair;
And dolls from the children they dress up and take,
While children laugh loud at the show they will make.
Then they take round the garland to shew at each door,
With kerchief to hide the fine flowers cover'd o'er;
At cottages also, when willing to pay,
The maidens their much admired garland display.

Then at duck under water adown the long road,
They run with their dresses all flying abroad;
And ribbons all colours how sweet they appear!
May seems to begin the new life of the year.
Then the garland on ropes is hung high over all,
One end to a tree and one hooked to a wall;
Where they cuck the ball over till day is nigh gone,
And then tea and cakes and the dancing comes on.

And then, lawk! what dancing and laughing is there,
While the fiddler makes faces within the arm chair;
And then comes the cushion, the girls they all shriek
And fly to the door from the old fiddler's squeak;
But the doors they are fastened, so all must kneel down
And take the rude kiss from the unmannerly clown.
Thus the May games are ended, to their houses they roam,
With the sweetheart she chooses each maiden goes home.

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

from "Coy Maidens"

[The Kirk at Upton]

Her voice shouted Roger, like throwing a stone

So give up old Soldier and let her alone

Go away with ye Roger young Man do I see

If you're an old Soldier you may march on with me.

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 we’re married, and bedded and all

And the old Kirk at Upton the green wedding saw

For the grass it was green and our years was the same

And from morning to Evening none called us to blame

(lines 7-8, 11-20)

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864,

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

Song: 'Come lovley Jenny"

Come lovley Jenny haste away

Quickly come make no delay
Come & view these sweetful flowers
Nurs'd by Aprils softest showers
Haste & greet their happy shade
Soon they'l wither soon they'l fade
Then haste my dearest haste away
Come & taste the sweets of May

Lovley sweets that never cloy
Happiest hours that yield to joy
Hedgerows dappl'd green & white
Look so graceful to the sight
Meadows cloth'd in yellow hue
Banks streak'd oer with vi'lets hue
Yet their charms will soon decay
Soon they'l fade & dye away

Then lovley Jenny haste away
Quickly come make no delay
Come & view these sweetful flowers
Nurs'd by Aprils softest showers
Haste & greet their happy shade
Soon they'l wither soon they'l fade
Then haste my dearest haste away
Come & taste the sweets of May

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

A Character

Her hair bound in tortoise or else loosley flowing

(Lo each is a beautiful show)
More blacker than jet the fine ringlets seem glowing
Nay they rival the Micaelmas sloe.
Her face cloth'd in blushes like the east in a morning
Sheds a lustre so healthful and gay
And O! her sweet neck is with Cupids adorning
More whiter than blossoms of May.

Her beautiful bosom with love sweetly swelling
Whould make e'en a Hermit to long
And O! of her eyes and her lips theres no telling
They'r out o' the reach of my song.
Her height with the rest in exactest propotion
Nought defective throughout can be seen
And her fine limbs conceal'd will oft show their sweet motion
When met by the wind on the green.

Tho her form is so charmingly fine tall and slender
It does not outrival her mind,
She's equaly Modest Obliging and Tender
That she seems for an angel designd.
She also is Witty and quick in descerning,
Nor a stranger to Helicon's spring,
She's an able proficient in all sorts of Learning,
To Draw or to Write or to Sing.

O! Cupid since thou with thy Bow fast pursuing
Made an Arrow flie twang thro my heart
Give me but this Maid I'll ne'er mourn the subduing,
But bless the good aim of thy dart.

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Mary

'Tis April and the morning love

Awakes in balmy dew
Flowers are the meads adorning love
In yellow white and blue
And if thy heart is true my love
As true it used to be
Then leave thy cot and kye my love
And walk the fields with me

And we will walk the meadow love
And we will walk the grove
And by the winding river love
We'll walk and talk of love
And by the white thorn bushes love
Just budding into green
Where the shaded fountain rushes love
We'll steal a kiss unseen

Where the daisey on the brink my love
Stands peeping in the flood
And the blackcap flies to drink my love
That whistles in the wood
Where the crowflower like the sun my love
Shines in the grass so green
Let's go where waters run my love
And live and love unseen

And live and love unseen my dear
For one sweet April day
Drear winter seems to last a year
While Mary is away
Where we can see and not be seen
By woods or shady grove
Or by the hawthorn's tender green
Let's meet, and live and love

Selected Poems, ed. J.W. and Anne Tibble (Everyman, 1965)

Native Scenes

O native scenes for ever ever dear

So blest so happy where I long have been
So charmd with nature in each varied scene
To leave ye all is cutting & severe
Ye hanging bushes that from winds woud screen
Where oft Ive shelterd from an aprils shower
In youths past bliss in Childhoods happy hour
Ye Woods Ive wanderd searching out the nest
Ye Meadows gay that reard me many a flower

Culling my cow slips Ive been doubly blest
Huming gay fancies As I bound the prize
O Fate unkind beloved scenes adieu
Your vanishd pleasures crowd my swimming eyes
& makes this wounded heart to bleed anew

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

The Winter time is over love

The winter time is over love

White thorns begin to bud
& brown & green of freshness love
Enlivens all the wood
Theres white clouds got agen the sun
One daisey open on the green
The primrose shows its sulphur bud
Just where the hazel stulps are seen
& ere the April time is out
Along the ridings gravel walk
The bedlam primrose blooms about
Wi' twenty blossoms on a stalk
How happy seems the drop of dew
That nestles in the daiseys eye
How blest the cloud seems in the blue
That near the sun appears to lie

How happy does thy shadows seem

That stretches oer the morning grass
They seeims to walk as in a dream
I know their shadows as they pass
The primrose over withered leaves
Now beautifully shines

The Later Poems of John Clare

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield
(Manchester University Press, 1964)

from "Adieu to my false love for ever"

The week before Easter, the days long and clear,

So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air,
I went in the meadow some flowers to find there,
But the meadow would yield me no posies.

The weather, like love, did deceitful appear,
And I wandered for joy when my sorrow was near,
For the thorn that wounds deeply doth bide the whole year,
When the bush it is naked of roses.

I courted a girl that was handsome and gay,
I thought her as constant and true as the day,
Till she married for riches and said my love nay,
And so my poor heart got requited.

(...)

Now make me a bed in yon river so deep,
Let its waves be my mourners; naught living will weep;
And there let me lie and take a long sleep,
So adieu to my false love for ever.

John Clare and the Folk Tradition (1983)
George Deacon

To an April Daisy

Welcome old Maytey peeping once again

Our meeting minds me of a pleasent hour
Springs pencil pinks thy cheek that blushy stain
& Summer glistens in thy tinty flower

Hail Beautys gem disdaining time nor place
Carlessly creeping on the dunghills side
Demeanour softens in thy crimpled face
& Decks thee with a charm unknown to pride

Hail 'venturer once again—that fearless here
Encampeth on the hoar hills sunny side
Springs early messenger thourt doubly dear
& Winters loss by thee is well suply'd

Now winters storms shall cease their pelting rage
Nor need I mention Winters woes to thee
Far better luck thy visits well presage
& be it thine & mine that luck to see

Ah may thy smiles confirm the hopes they tell—
To see thee frost bit I'd be griev'd at heart
I meet thee happy & I wish thee well
Till ripening summer summons us to part

Then like old friends or mates thats neighbours been
Well part in hopes to meet another year
& at thy exit from this changing scene
Well mix our wishes in a tokening tear

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

from "Jockey & Jinney or First Love"

Wereover many a stile neeth willows grey
The winding footpath leaves the public way
Free from the dusty din & ceasless chime
Of bustling waggons in the summer time
Crossing a brook—were braving storms in vain
Two willows fell & still for brigs remain
Corn field & clover closes leading down
In peacful windings to the neighbouring town

Were on bridge wall or rail or trees smooth bark
The passing eye is often stopt to mark
The artless vanity of village swains
Who spend a leisure hour with patient pains
& put to sculptors purposes the knife
To spin a cobweb for an after life
Nicking the letters of their little names
In rudest forms that untaught science frames

Pleasd with the feeblest shadow of renown
That warms alike the noble and the clown
Nigh to that path a sheltering hedge beside
A Cottage stands in solitary pride
Whose thatch with housleek flowers is yellowd oer
Where flock the bees from hives agen the door
Lonly & sweet as ever welcome spring
Neer fails its pleasant visitors to bring

Trees sheltering round it hide returning rooks
& twittering swallows seek its chimney nooks
In peace the sparrow chirps its joyous calls
& takes the feather to the crevisd walls
Nor fails the harmless robin & the wren
To seek such sweet secluded haunts agen
Beneath the eaves the martins still repair
& yearly build their mortard dwelling there

(Lines 1 - 32)

Cottage Tales, ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and P.M.S. Dawson

(Ashington and Manchester: Mid-NAG and Carcanet, 1993)

Hen's Nest

Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hen's nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her perch
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;
Who lays her washing by, and far and near
Goes seeking all about from day to day,
And 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,
And takes his hat and thinks to find it full,
She's laid so long so many might have been.
But naught is found and all is given o'er
Till the young brood come chirping to the door.

Northborough Sonnets, (Ashington/Manchester: Mid-NAG/Carcanet, 1995)
ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and P.M.S. Dawson

from "Holywell"

A distant prospect cheer'd my eye,
Of closes green and fallows brown,
And distant glimpse of cot and town,
And steeple beck'ning on the sight,
By morning sunbeams painted white,
And darksome woods with shadings sweet,
To make the landscape round complete,
And distant waters glist'ning by,
As if the ground were patch'd with sky;
While on the blue horizon's line
The far-off things did dimly shine,
Which wild conjecture only sees,
And fancy moulds to clouds and trees,
Thinking, if thither she could fly,
She'd find the close of earth and sky.

But as we turn to look again
On nearest objects, wood and plain,
(So truths than fiction lovelier seem),
One warms as wak'ning from a dream.
From covert hedge, on either side,
The blackbirds flutter'd terrified,
Mistaking me for pilfering boy
That doth too oft their nests destroy;
And ‘prink, prink, prink,’ they took to wing,
In snugger shades to build and sing.
From tufted grass or bush, the hare
Oft sprung from her endanger'd lair;
Surprise was startled on her rout,
So near one's feet she bolted out.
The sun each tree-top mounted o'er,
And got church-steeple height or more:
And as I soodled on and on,
The ground was warm to look upon.

The Village Minstrel, and Other Poems (2 volumes, 1821)

The Flight of Birds

[Images: Carry Akroyd]

The crow goes flopping on from wood to wood,
The wild duck wherries to the distant flood,
The starnels hurry o'er in merry crowds,
And overhead whew by like hasty clouds;
The wild duck from the meadow-water plies
And dashes up the water as he flies;
The pigeon suthers by on rapid wing,
The lark mounts upward at the call of spring.
In easy flights above the hurricane
With doubled neck high sails the noisy crane.
Whizz goes the pewit o'er the ploughman's team,
With many a whew and whirl and sudden scream;
And lightly fluttering to the tree just by,
In chattering journeys whirls the noisy pie;
From bush to bush slow swees the screaming jay,
With one harsh note of pleasure all the day.

John Clare, Selected Poems,
ed. J.W. and Anne Tibble (Everyman, 1965)

Spring

SPRING (a)
Welcome gentle breathing Spring
Now the birds are heard to sing
And the budding tree is seen
Putting forth her tender green
O delightful season hail
May my footsteps never fail
When time permits to visit thee
And view thy new born scenery

SPRING (b)
Welcome gentle breathing spring
Now the birds begin to sing
Now the Swelling shade is seen
Putting forth its tender green
While the Suns extended way
Sweetly shows the lengthend day
O delightful Season hail
May my footsteps never fail
When I've time to trample where
All thy beauties reappear

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,
ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

March

The insect world, now sunbeams higher climb,
Oft dream of spring, and wake before their time:
Bees stroke their little legs across their wings,
And venture short flights where the snowdrop hings
Its silver bell, and winter aconite
Its buttercup-like flowers that shut at night,
With green leaf furling round its cup of gold,
Like tender maiden muffled from the cold;
They sip and find their honey-dreams are vain,
Then feebly hasten to their hives again.
The butterflies, by eager hopes undone,
Glad as a child come out to greet the sun,
Beneath the shadows of a sunny shower
Are lost, nor see to-morrow's April flower.

Selected Poems of John Clare (ed. James Reeves), London: Heinemann, 1954

from "The Shepherd's Calendar - March"

Where the stunt bank fronts the southern sky
By lanes or brooks where sunbeams love to lye
A cowslip peep will open faintly coy
Soon seen and gatherd by a wandering boy

A tale of spring around the distant haze
Seems muttering pleasures wi the lengthning days
Morn wakens mottld oft wi may day stains
And shower drops hang the grassy sprouting plains

And on the naked thorns of brassy hue
Drip glistning like a summer dream of dew
While from the hill side freshning forest drops
As one might walk upon their thickening tops

And buds wi young hopes promise seemly swells
Where woodman that in wild seclusion dwells
Wi chopping toil the coming spring deceives
Of many dancing shadows flowers and leaves

And in his pathway down the mossy wood
Crushes wi hasty feet full many a bud
Of early primrose yet if timely spied
Shelterd some old half rotten stump beside

The sight will cheer his solitery hour
And urge his feet to stride and save the flower
Muffld in baffles leathern coat and gloves
The hedger toils oft scaring rustling doves

The Shepherd's Calendar, with Village Stories, and Other Poems (1827)

from "To the Snipe"

Boys thread the woods
To their remotest shades;
But in these marshy flats, these stagnant floods,
Security pervades.

From year to year
Places untrodden lie,
Where man nor boy nor stock hath ventured near,
Naught gazed on but the sky.

And fowl that dread
The very breath of man,
Hiding in spots that never knew his tread,
A wild and timid clan.

Widgeon and teal
And wild duck—restless lot,
That from man's dreaded sight will ever steal
To the most dreary spot.

Here tempests howl
Around each flaggy plot,
Where they who dread man's sight, the water fowl,
Hide and are frightened not.

'Tis power divine
That heartens them to brave
The roughest tempest and at ease recline
On marshes or the wave.

Yet instinct knows
Not safety's bounds:—to shun
The firmer ground where skulking fowler goes
With searching dogs and gun.

The Poems of John Clare
ed. J. W. Tibble (1935)
[Image: Carry Akroyd - http://www.carryakroyd.co.uk/ ]

Today the fox must die

A Hunting Song
The cock awakes the rosy dawn
  And tells approaching day
While Reynard sneaks along the lawn
  Belated with his prey
—O never think to find thy home
  But for thy safety fly
The sportman's long proclaim'd thy doom—
  “Today a Fox shall die”

The bugle blows the sporting train
  Swift mount the snorting steed
Each fence defiance bids in vain
  Their progress to impede—
The cover broke they drive along
  And Raise a jovial cry
Each dog barks chorus to my song
  “Today a fox shall die”

Like lightning o’er the hills they sweep
  All readiest roads they go
The Five-barr'd gate with ease they leap:
  Hark forward tally ho!
The mist hangs on, and scents him strong
  The moisture makes it lie
The woods re-echo to my song
  “This day the Fox must die”

Old Reynard finding shifts in vain
  While hounds and horns pursue
Now leaves the woods to try the plain
  —The bugle sounds a view
Old Threadbrake gaily leads the throng
  His bold unerring cry
Confirms the burthen of my song
  “This day the fox shall die”

His funeral knell the bugle blows
  His end approaches near
He reels & staggers as he goes
  And drops his brush with fear
More eager now they press along
  And louder still the cry—
All join in chorus to my song
  “Today the fox must die”

John Clare, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)
[Image: Carry Akroyd]

In Hilly Wood

How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs
But near an eye can find its way to see
The sun beams scarce molest me wi a smile
So thick the leafy armies gather round
& where they do the breeze blows cool the while
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground
—Full many a flower too wishing to be seen
Perks up its head the hiding grass between—
In midwood silence thus how sweet to be
Where all the noises that on peace intrude
Comes from the chittering cricket bird & bee
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude

The Village Minstrel, and Other Poems (2 volumes, 1821)
[Image: Carry Akroyd]

A Scene

The landscapes stretching view, that opens wide,
With dribbling brooks, and river's wider floods,
And hills, and vales, and darksome lowering woods,
With grains of varied hues and grasses pied;
The low brown cottage in the shelter'd nook;
The steeple, perking just above the trees
Whose dangling leaves keep rustling in the breeze;
And thoughtful shepherd bending o'er his hook;
And maidens stript, haymaking too, appear;
And Hodge a-whistling at his fallow plough;
And herdsman hallooing to intruding cow:
All these, with hundreds more, far off and near,
Approach my sight; and please to such excess,
That language fails the pleasure to express.

John Clare, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)
[Image: Carry Akroyd]

A Valentine

[Click on the title for the illustrations to the poem]

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary,
Some of spring’s early flowers;
The ivy is green by the dairy,
And so are these laurels of ours.

Though the snow fell so deep, and the winter was dreary,
The laurels are green, and the sparrows are cheery.
The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose;
And aconites under the lilac like fairies;

The best in the bunches for Mary I chose;
Their looks are as sweet, and as simple as Mary's;
The one will make spring, in my verses so bare,
The other will set off, and braid thy dark hair.

Red primroses too, at the old parlour end,
Have bloom'd all the winter, ‘mid’ snow's cold and dreary,
Where the lavender cotton kept off the cold wind
Now to shine in my Valentine nosegay for Mary.

And shine in my verses all summer and be,
A memento of fondness, and friendship for thee.
Here's the crocus half opened, that spreads into gold;
Like branches of sunbeams left there by a fairy,

I pluck them as such, in these verses so cold,
But they'll bloom twice as bright, in the presence of Mary.
These garden flowers cropt, I will go to the fields,
And see what the valleys and pasture land yields.

Here's the pale primrose, on the skirts of the wild wood,
And violet blue, 'neath the thorn on the green:
The wild flowers we pluck't, in the days of our childhood,
On the very same spot, as no changes had been!

In the very same place, where the sun kiss'd the leaves,
And the woodbine its branches, with thorns interweaves.
And here in the pasture all swarming with rushes,
Is a cowslip, as blooming and forward as spring,

And the pilewort like sunshine, glows under the bushes
While the chaffinch there sitting is trying to sing.
And the daisies are comeing, called ‘stars of the earth’;
To bring to the school-boy his spring time of mirth.

Here is the nosegay—how simple it shines,
It speaks without words, to the ear and the eye:
The flowers of the spring, are the best Valentines,
They are young, fair, and simple, and pleasingly shy.
That you may remain so, and ne'er act contrary,
I send you these flowers, as a Valentine Mary.

The Poems of John Clare, ed. J. W. Tibble
(2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

from "The Cellar Door - A Ballad"

[Image: Myles Birket Foster - The Country Inn]

(...)
& pulled at the quart till the snob he declared
When he went to drink next that the bottom was bared
No matter for that said the toper & grinned
I had but a soak & neer rested for wind
Thats law said the smith with a look rather vexed
But the quart was a forfeit so pay for the next
Then they talked of their skill & their labour till noon
When the sober mans toil was exactly half done

& there the plough lay—people hardly could pass
& the horses let loose pinsoned up the short grass
& browsed on the bottle of flags lying there
By the gipseys old budget for mending a chair
The millers horse tyed to the old smithy door
Stood stamping his feet by the flies bitten sore
Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe
& he stampt till another fell off & made two

Till the miller expecting that all would get loose
Went to seek him & cursed him outright for a goose
But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twice
& forgot all his passion & toils in a trice
& the fly bitten horse at the old smithy post
Might stamp till his shoes & his legs they were lost
He sung his old songs & forgot his old mill
Blow winds high or low she might rest at her will

(lines 105-128)
John Clare, The Midsummer Cushion, ed. Kelsey Thornton and Anne Tibble (Ashington and Manchester: Mid-NAG and Carcanet, 1979, revised second edition, 1990)

from "Martinmass Eve"

The old dame potters out to call the rest
& supper gins prepare & welcomes every guest
Their darkling joys each juggling couple leaves
& to the humble banquet hustle down
Telling as how while staning neath the eaves
They heard the rantings of some drunken clown
& fiddles somwere scraping in the town
& gis it out a dancing there must be
& each lass 'grees to slip on better gown
& after supper take a walk & see
Wi their admiring swains to keep em company
While one in dumps broods on the corner stool
Their elder daughter doomd to worst of fate
Who made one slip in love & playd the fool
&s since condemnd to live without a mate
No youth again courts once beguiled kate
Tho hopes of sweethearts still perplex her head
& charm to try by gipseys told of late
From table slives unseen an onion red
To dream at martinmass with whom she is to wed
& as the shadowd shifting joys of hope
Is all the comfort kit can call to mind
When for the dancing sports the rest elope
She wi the old folks patient stays behind
To bed retiring full of hopes to find
The charm succeed—till the returning day
Proves gipseys wisdom empty as the wind
& all her hopes & money thrown away
Leaving her blighted youth to wither & decay

(lines 170 - 198)
Poems of John Clare's Madness, ed. Geoffrey Grigson (1949)

from "The Harvest Morning"

Ah lovley Emma mingling wi' the rest
Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen
Thy rosey cheeks thy sweetly swelling breast
But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean
O poverty! how basely you demean
The imprison'd worth your rigid fates confine
Not fancied charms of an arcadian queen
So sweet as Emmas real beauties shine
Had fortune blest sweet girl this lot had neer been thine
The suns increasing heat now mounted high
Refreshment must recruit exausted power
The waggon stops the busy tools thrown bye
& 'neath a shock's enjoy'd the beavering hour
The bashful maid—sweet healths engaging flower
Lingering behind—oer rake still blushing bends
& when to take the horn fond swains implore
With feign'd excuses its dislike pretends
So pass the beavering hours—So harvest morning ends

(lines 47-64)
Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

No use in trying

My love is as sweet as a bean field in blossom
Like the pea bloom her cheek like the dog rose her bosom
My love she's as rich as brook banks of daiseys
Gold eyes and silver rims meeting mens praises
Her eyes are as bright as the brooks silver ripples
Milk white are her twin breast[s] & rose pink the nipples
Her ancles are sweet as a man can conceive
And her arms are as fine to[o] though hid in her sleeve

She's as rosey as morning as mild as the even
I sing her love songs but she's hard o believeing
She'll bid me good day if we meet on the causeway
If I stop to talk love, in a minute she's saucey
To kiss or come nigh her there's no use in trying
She wouldn't toutch a mans face though he were dying
And yet she is lovely as ever was seen
As the rose o' the wood or pink o' the green

My love is as sweet as a bean field in blossom
The snow drop's not whiter than is her soft bosom
The plash o' the brook it is nothing so bright
As the beam of her eye by bonny moonlight
The rose o' her cheeks no garden so fair
Can match with the red & carnations there
We met where the bean fields were misted wi dew
And if she had kissed me why nobody knew

Clare's Countryside,
Selected and Introduced by Brian Patten,
ed. Eric Robinson (London: Heinemann/Quixote Press, 1981)

A Ploughmans skill at Classification after the Lineian arrangement

‘Go wipe your shoes’ says mistress shrew
To Hodge who up for's dinner drew
‘'Tis'n't fitting that such hogs as you
‘Shou'd come into a house’
‘Why not’ says hodge—‘if thats the case
‘I cant come in a better place
‘For surely there is no disgrace
For hogs to herd wi' Sows

John Clare, Selected Poems, ed. Ian Hamilton

The Fallen Elm (excerpt)

Self interest saw thee stand in freedoms ways
So thy old shadow must a tyrant be
Thoust heard the knave abusing those in power
Bawl freedom loud & then opress the free
Thoust sheltered hypocrites in many a shower
That when in power would never shelter thee
Thoust heard the knave supply his canting powers
With wrongs illusions when he wanted friends
That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers
& when clouds vanished made thy shade amends
With axe at root he felled thee to the ground
& barked of freedom—O I hate the sound

Time hears its visions speak & age sublime
Had made thee a deciple unto time
—It grows the cant term of enslaving tools
To wrong another by the name of right
It grows the liscence of oerbearing fools
To cheat plain honesty by force of might
Thus came enclosure—ruin was its guide
But freedoms clapping hands enjoyed the sight
Though comforts cottage soon was thrust aside
& workhouse prisons raised upon the scite
Een natures dwellings far away from men
The common heath became the spoilers prey

The rabbit had not where to make his den
& labours only cow was drove away
No matter—wrong was right & right was wrong
& freedoms bawl was sanction to the song
—Such was thy ruin music making elm
The rights of freedom was to injure thine
As thou wert served so would they overwhelm
In freedoms name the little that is mine
& there are knaves that brawl for better laws
& cant of tyranny in stronger powers
Who glut their vile unsatiated maws
& freedoms birthright from the weak devours

Langley Bush

[An aerial photo of Langley Bush showing its inaccessibility to visitors]

ONE summer's day in happiest mood
I sat beside old Langley Bush,
And o'er the furze in Hanglands Wood
I listened at the singing thrush;
Naught did my idle mind engross,
The tiny flixweed's only flower
Was there, and little beds of moss
Swelled pleaching to the sunny hour.

I passed it in a sicker day.
The golden furze-blooms burnt the wind
With sultry sweets—and there I lay
Tormented with the saddest mind;
The little hill did naked lie,
The old old bush was broke and gone,
My heart had felt it glad to die
To miss life's sorrows coming on.

I looked upon its naked stump,
And pictured back the fallen tree
To days I played hop, skip and jump
As happy as a boy could be.
I turned me to that happy day
I streaked beneath its mossy bough,
And there came shadows of dismay,
So dismally, I feel it now.

I thought o'er all life's sweetest things
Made dreary as a broken charm,
Wood-ridings where the thrush still sings
And love went leaning on my arm.
I thought, and felt as desolate
As want upon a winter scene,
While by that broken stump I sat,
The type of broken hopes within.

James Reeves, Selected Poems of John Clare
(London: Heinemann, 1954)

from "The Village Minstrel"

[Photo: Langley Bush, emasulated and enclosed]

But who can tell the anguish of his mind
When reformations formidable foes
Wi civil wars on natures peace combind
& desolation struck her deadly blows
As curst improvment gan his fields inclose
O greens & fields & trees farwell farwell
His heart wrung pains his unavailing woes
No words can utter & no tongue can tell

When ploughs destroyd the green when groves of willows fell
There once was springs when daises silver studs
Like sheets of snow on every pasture spread
There once was summers when the crow flower buds
Like golden sunbeams brightest lustre shed
& trees grew once that shelterd *Lubins head
There once was brooks sweet wimpering down the vale
The brooks no more—king cup & daiseys fled

Their last falln tree the naked moors bewail
& scarce a bush is left around to tell the mournful tale
Yon flaggy tufts & many a rushy nott
Existing still in spite of spade & plough
As seemly fond & loath to leave the spot
Tells where was once the green—brown fallows now
Where Lubin often turns a saddnd brow

Marks the stopt brook & mourns oppresions power
& thinks how once he waded in each slough
To crop the yellow ‘horse blobs’ early flower
Or catch the ‘millar thumb’ in summers sultry hour
There once was days the wood man knows it well
When shades een echod wi the singing thrush
There once was hours the ploughmens tale can tell
When mornings beauty wore its earliest blush

(lines 1,048 - 1,078)

*Lubin = the poet

from "The Shepherd's Calendar - January"

[Image : John Watchorn]

The schoolboy still in dithering joys

Pastime in leisure hours employs
And be the weather as it may
Is never at a loss for play
Rolling up jiant heaps of snow
As noontide frets its little thaw
Making rude things of various names
Snow men or aught their fancy frames
Till numbd wi cold they quake away
And join at hotter sports to play
Kicking wi many a flying bound
The foot ball oer the frozen ground
Or seeking bright glib ice to play
To sailing slide the hours away
As smooth and quick as shadows run
When clouds in autumn pass the sun
Some hurrying rambles eager take
To skait upon the meadow lake
Scaring the snipe from her retreat
From shelving banks unfrozen seat
Or running brook where icy spars
Which the pale sunlight specks wi stars
Shoots crizzling oer the restless tide
To many a likness petrified
Where fancy often stoops to pore
And turns again to wonder more
The more hen too wi fear opprest
Starts from her reedy shelterd nest
Bustling to get from foes away
And scarcly flies more fast then they
Skaiting along wi curving springs
Wi arms spread out like herons wings
They race away for pleasures sake
A hunters speed along the lake

(lines 101 to 134)

10 Best New Years Literature?

(Click on the title above for the Guardian's piece)
Clare's "The Old Year" -- from January 1st 1845 -- figures at No. 2

THE OLD YEAR
The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night
We cannot find him all the day
Nor hear him in the night
He left no footstep mark or place
In either shade or sun
Tho' last year he'd a neighbours face
In this he's known by none
All nothing every where
Mists we on mornings see
They have more substance when they're here
And more of form than he
He was a friend by every fire
In every cot and hall
A guest to every hearts desire
And now he's nought at all
Old papers thrown away
Or garments cast aside
E'en the talk of yesterday
Are things identified
But time once torn away
No voices can recall
The eve of new years day
Left the old one lost to all

Jany 1st/45