The 'Glorious' 12th? One of Clare's many letters to a Newspaper


TO THE HEDITER

 

Vestminster Pit, Sunday

 

            Sar – To-day bein vat a Lawyer’s Clarke as cums to my Pit calls a “die ease num” (by vich I suppose he means a day on vich my bear and bajjer’s has an easy time of it,) I’ve mended the old pen as I rote all my former yepissels with, and have tuk it up to call yure attenshon to summut as I hav jest red in the Bishop’s paper.  Here is it.

 

GRAND SHOOTING PARTY – Friday se’nnights and Monday week were slaughtering days in the home coverts at Whersted Lodge, the seat of Lord Granville, near Ipswich.   On Friday there were killed with guns, 2 partridges, 151 pheasants, 6 woodcocks, 70 hares, and 36 rabbits – total 265.  And on Monday, with 12 guns, 4 partridges, 433 pheasants, 4 woodcocks, 320 hares, and 58 rabits – total 819.  Grand total, 1,084.

 

            The following list has been handed to us, as containing the number of heads of games killed on Monday by the NOBLEMEN and GENTLEMEN respectively.  It does not exactly correspond with the statement above, which we have no doubt is correct, but we suppose it included THE WOUNDED BIRDS, which were not picked up till the next day!

 

Duke of York                          128  

Duke of Wellington                120 

Lord Granville                        48       

Hon. Mr. Greville                  120       

Hon. Mr. De Roos                 105       

Hon. Mr. Anson                     88                   

Hon. Mr. Lamb                     78

Hon. Mr. Montague              70

Hon. Mr. Ponsonby               55

Hon. Mr. Arbuthnot              26

Sir Robt. Harland, bart           45

Rev. Mr. Capper                     41

Total                                       924

 

            Vel sir, vat do you think of that?  Theres 819 poor annemels kild in vun day, and 105 VOUNDED – picked up in the voods the next day – left to die of broken legs and vings!

 

            And vat sort of annemels vas they, Ser? – tame annemals, vat vas fed in “the Home Coverts” till they was as tame as barn dore fouls; pretty annemals, Ser, innocent annemals; annemals as feel as much as Mr. MARTIN.  And hoo vas it as kild and vounded them, Ser?  Vy a Rial Dook, a common Dook, a Lord, seven HONNORABELS, a Barrownite, and a REVEREND Minister of that religgon, vich Mrs. Fry told vun of our chaps tuther day in Newgate was a religgon of kindness, of mercy, and of luv?

 

            And vy did they commit this “slaughter?” – Vat vas there motiv for this butchery?  Ile tell you, Ser. – Pleshure! Greet pleshure, Ser!  There was the pleshure of eatin a few of em; there was the pleshure of laying rich people, as havvent got no “home coverts”, under the sort of Hobblegashon vich they think it to reserve a present of game from a Dook or a Lord; there was the pleshure of boastin about there shuting, and of coutin the number as died at vunce, and the number as died by degrees in the voods; there was the pleshure of lettin the Rail Dook shute the most!  -- that’s a pleshure as may be varth sumthing sum day, and, last of all there vas the pleshure of having their names in the Newspaper.  I dont say much of that, for its a pleshure to me, and yure verry good to indulge me in it.

 

            But I jest vant to ask MR. MARTIN vat he thinks of all this?  I no he vont do nothin, but I vant to no vat he thinks?  I jest vant to no vether he thinks there’s any jestice in his Hact of Parliament, vich settels a donkey-boy in a jiffey, and lets all them NOBS commit as much cruelty as ever they like?  Lord, O Lord, vat at a wurld this is!  Here’s he as will be the Had of the Law; here’s Dooks, Lords, Barrownites, and Honnorabels, all law-makers themselves; here’s Parson-Magistrates, as upholds the laws and executes em,  as preeches againste cruelty, and sends a poor man to the mill for pickin up a ded hare vich had dies of a mortificashun caused by vun of theer own guns.

 

            Here’s a set of Rial, Nobel, Honnorabel, Vurthy, Reverrent Gentlemen, going out to a “slaughtering day in the home coverts” to kill 819 annemals, as never did em eny harm, and to vound 105 more, all for pleshure.  And here is the Bishops Paper, vat rites for the shuvvels hats, and vat so often blackards “the ignorant, cruel, feroshous, lower-orders,” publisahin a fine boastien descriptishon of the “slaughtering day,” and calculatin the number as vas kild outrite and the number as died of slow lingerrin pain in the voods, and vas picked up the next day “by the Noblemen and Gentlemen!”

 

            A happy new yeer to you, ser, and if you puts this in, you’ll be, as yushall, a frend to the Poor  -- Yure most obedient sarvent to command,

 

                                    ‘CHARLEY EASTUP’


Enclosure



Far spread the moory ground a level scene
Bespread with rush & one eternal green

That never felt the rage of blundering plough

Though centuries wreathed spring blossoms on its brow

Autumn met plains that stretched them far away

In unchecked shadows of green brown & grey

 

Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene

No fence of ownership crept in between

To hide the prospect from the gazing eye

Its only bondage was the circling sky

A mighty flat undwarfed by bush & tree

Spread its faint shadow of immensity

 

& lost itself which seemed to eke its bounds

In the blue mist the horizons edge surrounds

Now this sweet vision of my boyish hours

Free as spring clouds & wild as forest flowers

Is faded all—a hope that blossomed free

& hath been once as it no more shall be

 

Enclosure came & trampled on the grave

Of labours rights & left the poor a slave

& memorys pride ere want to wealth did bow

Is both the shadow & the substance now

The sheep & cows were free to range as then

Where change might prompt nor felt the bonds of men

 

Cows went & came with every morn and night

To the wild pasture as their common right

& sheep unfolded with the rising sun

Heard the swains shout & felt their freedom won

Tracked the red fallow field & heath & plain

Or sought the brook to drink & roamed again

 

While the glad shepherd traced their tracks along

Free as the lark & happy as her song

But now alls fled & flats of many a dye

That seemed to lengthen with the following eye

Moors losing from the sight far smooth & blea

Where swopt the plover in its pleasure free

 

Are banished now with heaths once wild & gay

As poets visions of lifes early day

Like mighty giants of their limbs bereft

The skybound wastes in mangled garbs are left

Fence meeting fence in owners little bounds

Of field & meadow large as garden-grounds

 

In little parcels little minds to please

With men & flocks imprisoned ill at ease

For with the poor scared freedom bade farewell

& fortune-hunters totter where they fell

They dreamed of riches in the rebel scheme

& find too truly that they did but dream

 

MP II 347

Dancing oak trees round & round

[Image: Anne Lee]

The wood is sweet - I love it well
In spending there my leisure hours
To seek the snail its painted shell
& look about for curious flowers
Or neath the hazels leafy thatch
On a stulp or mossy ground
Little squirrels gambols watch
Dancing oak trees round & round

Green was the shade - I love the woods
When autumns wind is mourning loud
To see the leaves float on the floods
Dead within their yellow shroud
The wood was then in glory spread -
I love the browning bough to see
That litters autumns dying bed -
Her latest sigh is dear to me

Neath a spreading shady oak
For awhile to muse I lay
From its grains a bough I broke
To fan the teasing flies away
Then I sought the woodland side
Cool the breeze my face did meet
& the shade the sun did hide
Though twas hot it seemed sweet

Leonard Clark (ed)
John Clare (Longman's Poetry Library, 1969)

Glenn Eric Clare Rose (RIP)

My dear friend Glenn Rose, a member of the John Clare Society and a direct descendant of Clare, died at 5:30am on the 29th June, after 6 months in hospital in Newcastle - much of that time in the Intensive Care Unit. I spent 20 minutes speaking on the phone to Dorothy and Eric, Glenn's parents - now both in their mid-90s.  Dorothy is the grand-daughter of Clare's grand-daughter.
I had not heard from him since last December when he wrote to me after the death of my mother in November.
Glenn was a stalwart member of the Clare Society, and my highlight of the Festival in July each year was meeting him and Dorothy; we also served together for some years on the Management Committee of the Society.

The photos show him with his two grand-sons, and our commisserations must go to Ayla his daughter on her great loss.

Dorothy asked me to remember him in the final two lines of Clare's 'I am': 

"Untroubling & untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky"

10th June 1824

Saw the blue-grey or lead-colord Fly-catcher for the first time this season they are calld 'Egypt Birds' by the common people from their note which seems to resemble the sound of the word 'Egypt' they build in old walls like the redstart & Grey Wagtail.
(Clare's Journal)

If ever the painstaking work of transcription is justified, the hours of eye-strain and debate, the weeks and months of detailed labour, often misunderstood or undervalued, it is when the original manuscript of a great writer disappears – perhaps for ever. This is what has happened to MS A47 from the Peterborough archive. It contained the original text of Clare’s long poem ‘Birds Nesting’.
We owe Eric Robinson a great debt, as if he had not struggled to copy this manuscript 50 years ago, it would only have survived in fragments and in unsatisfactory copies by earlier hands.

What happened to the manuscript? We do not know, nor when exactly it disappeared. What we do know however, is that it was loaned to an unnamed scholar by a senior member of the Peterborough Museum Society, and left in a railway compartment between Peterborough and Cambridge.
An excerpt from ‘Birds Nesting’ - Chapbook No. 13 (Arbour Editions)

There is a stranger comes with may
To haunt the homesteads orchard tree
Sings ‘eejip eejip’ all the day
& many cheated folks there be
Whose fancys lead their ears astray
Think bible egypt is its home

& marvel at the mighty way
That birds without a guide will come
It sings its strange & foreign call
All day in motion & at rest
& in the orchards hollow wall
It makes a large & curious nest

Of straw that from the yard it gains
& cobwebs fine as very down
& lays six eggs of tawney stains
Besprent with dots of darker brown
Its back is of a slatey blue
Its paler bosom ashen grey

Its wings are of a darker hue
& now & ever all the day
The orchard trees are its retreats
& there their ever busy guest
A somthing every moment meets
To catch & carry to its next

Neath cot & hovel eaves it drops
& flies & insects often gets
& round the barn hole fluttering stops
Where spiders spread their flimsy nets
& boys from what they’ve seen & heard
Them oft as Spider catchers call

But yet the busy Egypt bird
Remains a guess & doubt with all
& theres a bird I often mind
A bird that rarely ever fails
With Wagtails ‘Marholm Pits’ to find
& like them too with shorter tails

In heaps of stone it finds a way
& builds its nest of twitch & roots
& lays five eggs of leaden grey
With spots as black as ink or soot

(lines 279-318 of ‘Birds Nesting)

Shipwreckd Ghost


Ghost 
O open the door on thy william distrest
He longs just to lay his cold head on thy breast
The billows are beating contrary
They feign woud have rolld oer his rest in his grave
But he beetld the rock & he dasht the salt wave
To take a farwell of his mary

Mary 
I list somthing surely was calling to me
Ive opend the window but nought can I see
Go sleep thou impertinent fairy
I neer did thee harm to disturb my repose
To kill me wi news of his sea faring woes
Poor williams far off from his mary

Ghost 
O the night it is dark & the fogs gather deep
Thy eyes are yet dimd wi the visions of sleep
Blame thou no impertinent fairy
All hamperd wi sea weeds all clotted wi blood
From the wounds of the rock i' the rude dashing flood
He fears to be loathd by his mary

Mary 
Ah thou art no william thy voice is too broad
Tis more like the croak of the night walking toad
My williams was quite the contrary
He spoke like an angel his eyes they were bright
Twas as vainly to hide em as stars in the night
As sweet woud they shine on his mary

Ghost 
Ah closd are his eyes on the billows affloat
The salt waters ‘gug-gug—gug-gug’ down his throat
Well well may his speech seem contrary
Hoarse in the cold sea the waves mix in his wound
If thoult see thy william this instant come down
Hes short time to stay with his mary

Mary 
Ah there is my william O god how he bleeds
O faint not Ill free thy poor head from its weeds
& flew to the door like a fairy
But ere she coud open the clock tolled one
The night was all silent—her william was gone
& never more wakend his mary

Note:
George Deacon in 'John Clare and the Folk Tradition' (Page 142-3) has a tune set for this lyric.  He goes on to say, "This is surely a song written by Clare.  The lover returning as a ghost is a common theme in folk balladry, and song like 'The Daemon Lover', 'The Grey Cock' and 'Sweet William's Ghost' may have been in his mind when he wrote this.  As a composition in the popular idiom this is as unsuccessful as 'The Great Sea Fight'.  It is, however, a good example of the influence of this idiom on Clare's own writing."

Manuscript reference: Pet MS A7 33a; B2 123a; C1 5a
EP II 36

Tis Midsummer Eve

I've been gleaning again.  Working through my old notebooks from several years of searching the Clare manuscripts in the Peterborough Archive for little known or unpublished (as far as I know) work.  I noticed, only when typing them up, the links between these three short poems transcribed on three seperate visits in 2017.  Not the most eloquent of Clare's output, but they do have a real charm.

Heres the old fairey rings by this dark thickets side
Where the owl rests in fear & the foxes abide
Where fairys dance round them more still than a sigh
Yet the shepherd when late hears the noise passing bye –
& oer his snug fire in his cottage at night
Hell talk till the candle turns blue with affright
Of the pranks that they play & the sports they pursue
& the mischief when vexed that they venture to do
How they steal into barns & fall thrashing the corn
Till the cock on the dunghill gins sounding his horn
Then all in an instant flye silent away
With an ear in their hands & so many are they
That the old startled farmer with anguish & awe
When he comes in the morning finds nothing but straw
& why shouldnt we of our troubles take leave
& with nature make merry at midsummers eve
(lines 84-99)

Pet MS A49 p32
(Unpublished save MP II 207)


Do but look what a beautiful midsummer night
The fairys are dancing [no] doubt by moon light
In the dark beaten rings by the old forrest side
Where the owl roosts with fear and the fairies abide
Grass & flowers seem oerjoyed in the merry moonlight
& dress to impress in gay partys at night
For the pasture is free from the rude heavy cow
& they walk with no fear to be trampled on now
The bee with his load of red dust on his thigh
No longer to teaze them for kisses comes nigh
Tho the Moth a coy lover for chances doth creep
His kisses to steal now he thinks them asleep

Pet MS A39 p11
(Unpublished)


The Moth a coy lover now ventures to creep
Out at night to steal kisses from flowers when asleep
But the Butterflye bold as the Bee for a plot
Kisses the flowers all the day whether willing or not
Now no longer able his sports to pursue
He lay neath a leaf to get out of the dew
Heres the Cockchaffer to with his old sullen drone
Sings as if he thought no song sweet as his own
The Bee too with grains of red dust on each thigh
Who had drained thro the day all the honey flowers dry
& in vain he attempted straight forward to drive
He reeled and mistook the way home to his hive
Till lost on this spot in a considerable fright
He makes on this thistle a bed for the night
Heres the rope dancing spider a trusting his threads
From his web on the branches high over their heads
Ah well may you laugh at the sports he doth make
While he dances away in no fears for his neck
The rest were all coupled & happy & they
Song the old merry songs which they sang at his day

Pet MS A31 p9
‘Hidden Treasures’ - Arbour Editions – 2016 (2nd edition 2019)

Solitude


 John Clare’s 1819 poem ‘Solitude’ was published by Taylor & Hessey as part of the 1821 “The Village Minstrel” collection, but alas, with many alterations, omissions and ‘corrections’, as well as added punctuation.  

The altered text in ‘The Village Minstrel’ had been so butchered by its editors that it had become a very different poem indeed.  Why did Taylor & Hessey have this done?  Probably to make it more ‘acceptable’, in their opinion, to the book buying public of 1821.  Unfortunately, completely destroying Clare’s purpose in the poem, clearly seen by comparing their version with Clare’s manuscript.  I know which poem I would rather read, and it certainly is not the VM published version. 
 
Whilst researching Clare’s manuscripts with Annie Lee in 2014, we came across the ‘Solitude’ manuscript, immediately realising what had been done to Clare’s verse.  Since that moment our, and now my, aim has been to publish Clare’s verse and prose as he wrote it.  Little did we realise at that time, that by doing so we were inadvertently joining a heated argument that has raged for 50 (at least) years.  Certainly, since the first publications by Professor Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield of unchanged Clare texts in the 1960s.

Just to illustrate what the reader will miss reading the VM version, John Taylor removed the following lines from the published text in ‘The Village Minstrel’ (Vol 1, p 200 ff).  I have simply assembled them in the order in which they appear, dotted through the manuscript (Pet MS B2 p256a, C2 p36).

    O how sweet I cannot tell
    With thee at that hour to dwell
    Stretchd the mossy bank beside
    Lye to view the random tide
    Where no clowns has chopt from thence
    Bush nor stake to mend his fence
    Cornerd stones & pebbles round
    Breaking dasht wi mellow sound
    Wether this or that to see
    I am blest if Im wi thee
    & full dear has been the hour
    Spent wi in thy noon day bower
    Prest wi thee thy mossy seat
    O its unexpressive sweet

Why were these lines deleted?  No-one has any idea, but the whole 'Solitude' poem in its restored form was published – with its many variant readings - in the wonderful OUP Clarendon Editions (EP II 338).  I don’t think the poem has been published in its original state apart from that, until Annie Lee and I came along that is, Annie producing the stunning Handmade Limited Edition volume you see above - all long sold out of course.

Of sunset and dandelions






Tis May and yet the March flower Dandelion 
Is still in bloom among the Emerald grass 
Shining like guineas with the suns warm eye on 
We almost think they are gold as we pass 
Or fallen stars on a green sea of grass 
The[y] shine in fields on waste grounds near the town 
They closed like painters brush when even was 
At length they turn to nothing else but down 
While the rude winds blow of[f] each shadowy crown 

('A Raphsody' - lines 80-88)

Clare's use of thee and thou


(from a discussion on my 'John Clare Poet' facebook page)

Reading through Arbour Editions "O Woman Sweet Witchingly Woman."  Interested in "Mary leave thy lowly cot" (page 12), especially for its switching from thou to ye for the addressee. 
This is well-attested in Early Modern English, switching from thou to you and back for shades of intimacy or distance, and I wonder if my mentioning this brings to mind other lyrics where this occurs. Thoughts? Thank you all.  (John Wright)
  1. Mary leave thy lowly cot
  2. When thy thickest jobs are done
  3. 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
  1. Shoud ye go or shoud ye not
  2. Never shilly shally dear
  3. Leave yer work & leave yr cot
  4. Nothing need ye doubt or fear
  5. 1Chaps may tell ye lies in spite
  6. Calling me a roving swain
  7. Think what passd the other night
  8. Then Ill bound yell meet again
My answer: Not my field as I've said before, but the use of 'ye', 'yer', 'yr', 'yell' (ye'll) surely simply mimic the speech pattern, and are still 'possessives' (is that the right word)? I don't think you can say 'thour', 'thr', although I have heard (when I lived in Sheffield) 'thoull' (thou'll). Rebecca Hawley (Sheffield born and bred) might enlighten further...
Rebecca's answer: In Sheffield we still switch between thou and ye to address someone or variants of it. 'Tha'll freeze aht thee-er' - you will be cold outside. Or 'yul freeze'. Thou, thee, tha, thine, thou'll. All still used .You sometimes say thou'r meaning you were, past tense usually eg 'thou'r reyt daft yesterday when you....'. Sometimes you may say 'Tha a reyt un' meaning you're a bit of a character.

Spirit of the woods awake (excerpt)


[Image of Holm Fen by Anne Lee]

A manuscript I dug out of the Peterborough Archives... which had originally only been published in the Clarendon Editions, but now also in my Arbour Editions Chapbook (No.6) 'Trees - In a Strange Stillness'.  An early Clare poem that is virtually impossible to read from the manuscript notebook. Clare wrote all the poems therein in pencil, then erased to reuse the little book - he was very short of paper.  The notebook dates from 1819 or thereabouts, certainly before his marriage to Patty in March 1820. Because of the difficulties in transcription, most of the poems in the notebook have been largely overlooked.  Here is an excerpt, the first two verses.

Spirit of the woods awake
In thy wildest dress appear
Trace with me the curdled brake
Sound thy wildness in my ear
Genius of the woods that dwells
Sweeping boughs & grains among
As I climb thy rough rude dells
Breath thy roughness in my song

While I brush the branches by
& this woods still ways forsake
Woodland spirit meet my eye
Genius of the woods awake

Breath thy wildness in my ear
To thy trees  I do belong
Genius of the woods appear
Sound thy roughness in my song

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

John Clare gains recognition on a post stamp

As part of the 250th anniversary of William Wordsworth birthday on the 5th April 2020, the Royal Mail have issued a set of 10 stamps celebrating the romantic poets. Included in this set is John Clare, others include Blake, Keats and Byron. The set of stamps comes in a presentation pack which also contains a write of the romantic poets by Jonathan Bate. 

Twas love & pleasure all along
I felt that I'd a right to song
& sung—but in a timid strain
Of fondness for my native plain
For everything I felt a love
The weeds below the birds above
& weeds that bloomed in summers hours
I thought they should be reckoned flowers
They made a garden free for all
& so I loved them great & small
& sung of some that pleased my eye
Nor could I pass the thistle bye
But paused & thought it could not be
A weed in natures poesy
(lines 79-92)

A considerable surprise


Working through a huge pile of inherited transcripts and notes made largely by Professor Robinson over many years, I came across a transcript I had forgotten.  Entitled 'For tale of fisherman' is it an incomplete short story written by Clare, judged by its manuscript context, in the late 1820s.  I am still working on it, and searching for the missing text, but here is a short extract.

he was astonished even to fear & saw the waters for miles above him & miles about him & yet he breathed as free from choaking as he did before he started [while dibbing cabbages in his garden]     how it could be he could not tell but so it was    & as his eyes began to clear of their supprise as began to look about him to see the strange country he was in     & every thing was new & nothing like what he had seen be fore     there were large forrests as high as his own wood but leafey & when he came to examine them they were of pearls & corral    there were monsters of extradinary size & shape 

& what he had never expected to have accosted    a lady approached him   not very handsome to be sure   for she had green hair   red eyes   & teeth of odd shape   yet she seemed young & wellshaped     he accosted her but she seemed not to understand him & stooping as if to amuse her self by picking up things from the sand   she offered him a handful     & they were guineas & Portugal dollars & bright as if minted but yesterday    

Pet MS A18 p R254

'The Descending Spiral' - Chapbook No.16


What was the catalyst during the autumn and early winter of 1841 that made Patty Clare realise that she could not cope with her returned husband living, as they were, in Northborough?

I have always been intrigued with this year of two Asylums.  The year when Clare quit High Beech and walked the 90 miles to Werrington, where Patty picked him up off the road.  Then after a few months at home found himself being forcibly taken to Northampton General Asylum.

By Christmas his position in Northborough was impossible to maintain, “a stranger to his own family”, and he was removed to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum on 29thDecember 1841.

     & what is joy or bliss or happiness
     Mere trifling parents of a laugh or smile
     That are but cares decked in a different dress
     To cheat our hearts & sooth our hopes awhile
     Mere sabbaths in lifes agonizing toil
     To catch our breath while in its strife we dwell
     Prolonging life by shadows that beguile
     For joys beginnings have one tale to tell
     & bring their end a heart ache & farewell  


Poetically, the year was a very productive period with a vast output of all sorts, from Biblical paraphrases to the devastating denunciation of women, marriage and sexual excesses of Don Juan.  

Sandwiched between these polar opposites we encounter some of Clare’s most beautiful and haunting work, the beauty and longing of a confused mind.  But I see something else too.  I see a descending spiral.  A descent from mental confusion and day-dreaming, through depression into despair, which continued throughout much of his Northampton incarceration. In this, the sixteenth volume of my Chapbook series, I seek to show Clare’s spiral into despair, and the possible causes.


Incidentally, if you unsure exactly what a chapbook is, an introduction: http://arboureditions1.blogspot.com/2020/03/introduction-to-chapbook.html

Published in April 2020, The Descending Spiral is priced at £3.50 + £1 P&P.  To order by email drop me a message on arborfield@pm.me OR send me a message via facebook.

Kate O'Killarney


[Image: Killarney Castle]

The flower of Ould Ireland is Kate o' Killarney
So now ye half daft men ge's no more o' your blarney
Than the thistle and rose the shamrocks more green
Sweet Kate o' Killarney's the Irishmans queen
So tight Irish boys o' the smoke and the still
Drink the Irishmans Queen in another bright gill
What man o' the Shamrock what man o' the blarney
Drinks whiskey and knows not the Maid o' Killarney?

Oh Island o' green & sweet land o the praters
Wi your Catholic Priests & Eves sweet pretty craturs
I love you together like bees may you hive
And wish ye like bees in your Island may thrive
Your daughters are fair as their grandmother Eve
As lovely—as tempting—as fain to deceive
If you set me like Adam to fall by your sin
By the priest o' St Patrick I'm sure I should win

I'm not up to beading my prayers upon pearl
But I long for a kiss fro' my sweet Irish girl
Such a kiss that the parson himself could not blame
Nor find for the sin if it is so? a name
So heres to the shamrock and also the thistle
And the rose for an advocate never shall whistle
Put all three together & the pride o' Killarney
Is the Irishmans queen and her name is Kate Kearney

LP page 945
Knight Transcript KT ii 287

Ronnie at the Clare Society Festival


[Image:  Ronnie at Helpston]

I make no apology for featuring Ronald Blythe once again on this Blog. Ronnie, past President of the Clare Society, for many years wrote weekly for the Church Times.

Towards the end of the 19th century the British countryside would fall into a depression that would last until the opening of the Second World War, when food needs, and today's non-traditional farming methods, would rescue it from decline.
I looked up Clare's activities in July from his wonderfully useful The Shepherd's Calendar. So far as I can tell, virtually nothing happens in Wormingford in July. You might have to squeeze past a hay lorry whose dizzy oblong load totters ahead, and whose driver waves his sunburnt hand. No women semi-dressed in the hay-making fields which so tantalised the young poet. What work does he list for July? Well, mostly anything which meant using a scythe.
I keep my scythe in cutting order with a whet-stone. I bought it in Stowmarket a long time ago, and I am enchanted this moment to see Adrian wielding it in the orchard. Softly, it lays the summer growth down in rhythmic folds. Greengages will tumble down on to them without bruising. You have to beat the birds where there are greengages. A week late, and they will be the debris of a feast.
Clare's July village is noisy with "singing, shouting herding boys", and bagpipes, as young Scots tramp down the Great North Road to seek their fortunes in London. Our car makes its journey through ancient lanes and motorways to the church at Helpston, where I sit on the chancel step to talk on England's most eloquent village voice, and a prolific one, so that the John Clare Society need never run out of subjects.
We come home to matins and evensong in two different churches, and to the lasting heatwave. Now, with the house empty, and the white cat thanking her god for summer's torpor as she sleeps in the window ledge above what was the copper, I get back to routine, breaking into it now and then to pull up some giant weed. By far my most wondrous July achievement this year is the sweet-pea wigwam: a score of bamboo rods that carry the flowers to heaven. A vase of them locked into a room overnight is the best welcome to a July breakfast.
Clare sees "the gardener sprinkling showers from watering cans on drooping flowers" as he tended both wild and cultivated plants behind his cottage. It could have been a statement on his own genius. His natural history was marvellously inclusive. It began when he was a boy, lying low in the summer grass, watching climbing insects; and it ended as the beautiful sane region to which he could escape from the "madhouse".

(Ronald Blythe)