Hidden Treasures

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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Church-yard stone

From my Chapbook No.30 ‘Mary Joyce’, available from me over next weekend at the John Clare Society Festival, as will most of my 35 published books.

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 at her parent’s farm-house in Glinton 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)

The photo?  Mary’s church-yard stone.

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Golden groves

The new spring grass was high
The new pinks nest was seen
Where little padded lanes went bye
In hedges warm & green

When the golden evening came
& the tree tops like a flame
Glittered on the gazing eye
Like golden groves in a golden sky

The shepherd seeks the field
Where the awthorn hedges shield
The lane way to the open plain
& sets his fold of trays again

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Bonny & stout

Bonny & stout and brown without a hat
She frowns offended when they call her fat
Yet fat she is the merriest in the place
& all can know she wears a pretty face
But still she never heeds what praise can say
But does the work & oft runs out to play
To run about the yard & ramp & noise
& spring the mop upon the servant boys
When old hens noise & cackle every where
She hurries eager if the eggs are dear
& runs to seek them when they lay away
To get them ready for the market day
She gambols with the men & laughs aloud
& only quarrels when they call her proud

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The timid hare

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose
Crouching & sleeping neath its grassy lair
& scarcely startles though the shepherd goes
Close by its home & dogs are barking there
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passer by then knaps his hide again
& moody crows beside the road forbear
To fly though pelted by the passing swain
Thus day seems turned to night & tries to wake in vain

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Image by my friend Carry Akroyd

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The still water

Ive often gazed with pleasure by the edge

Of the old meadow lake floodwashed and crookd 

The water-rat slow rustling in the sedge

The fish-ring wavering in the clear Ive looked

In rapture on the mellow summer shine

Of the still water gleaming in the sun

Just wrinkled by the plash of quiet kine

Who knee-deep in the flags would drink—and done

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Hopes

Hopes sun shines sweet but who of hopes are proud

To see how soon it meeteth with a cloud

How many hopes & memorys went with thee

That forwerd looked to better destiny

Song seems not worth the muses care

Unless to grace it womans love be there

& fame is but a shadow crowned with bays

Without the cheering sun of womans grace

When thy young bosom at the tales it heard

Heavd up & panted like a timid bird

Thy splendid beauty blushed upon the sight

Like sudden frenzy of unlooked for flight

Thou haven of my trouble when I see
That lovely face the show is past with me

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The young brood

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

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Dank mists

Green fields no more the summer views

All sickened into ripened hues

Of brown & grey & darksome glooms

That mark the path where autumn comes

& in each woodlands buried way

The dewdrop lives for half the day

Dank mists oft creep 'twixt earth and sky

& dreaming dim the mornings eye

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The gay river

There the gay river laughing as it goes
Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides
& to the calm of heart in calmness shows
What pleasure there abides
To trace its sedgy banks from trouble free
Spots solitude provides
To muse & happy be

There ruminating neath some pleasant bush
On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease
Where I can pillow on the yielding rush
& acting as I please
Drop into pleasant dreams or musing lie
Mark the wind shaken trees
& cloud betravelled sky

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Damnd or blest

I dreamd a dream of somthing kin to fate

Which superst[it]ions blackest thoughts create

Something half natural to the grave that seems

Which deaths long trance of slumber aptly dreams

A dream of staggering horrors & of dread

Whose shadows lingerd when the dream had fled

Clinging to memory with their gloomy view

Till doubt & fancy half believd it true

That time was come or seemd as it was come

When death no longer makes the grave its home

When waking spirits leave their earthly rest

To mix forever with the damnd or blest

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Tho twas hot

Then I sought the woodland side 
Cool the breeze my face did meet 
& the sun the shade did hide 
Tho twas hot it seemed sweet 
& as while I clum the hill 
Many a distant charm I found 
Pausing on the lagging mill 
That scarcly movd its sails around 
Hanging oer a gate or stile 
Till my curious eye did tire 
Leisure was employd awhile 
Counting many a peeping spire 
While the hot sun gun to wain 
Cooling glooms fast deep[n]ing still

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… leads to joy

The crooked stile with little steps that aid

The climbing meets us & the pleasant grass

& hedgerows old with arbours ready made

For weariness to rest in pleasant shade

Surround us & with ecstasy we pass

Wild flower & insect tribes that ever mate

With joy & dance from every step we take

In numberless confusion all employ

Their little aims for peace & pleasures sake

& every summers footpath leads to joy

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Summer

The water elder is in flower
The woods are all in green
The dark oak forms a shady bower
& lovely is the scene

The wild flower of the summer fields
Clothes every swelling hill
& angels voices seem to shield
In murmurs of the rill

That whimpers o'er its winding source
As clear as morning showers
Where grass & weeds grow rank & coarse
& clouds of watered flowers
The fallen oak stripped of its bark
In the wood valley lies
Where dropping down the woodland lark
Sings summer melodies

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Image by my friend Carry Akroyd

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Ramping kecks

Where beesom weed that high wind leaves 
Blossoms & blooms above the eaves 
The old cow crib is mossed & green 
As if it just had painted been 
The ramping kecks in orchard gaps 
Shake like green neighbours in white caps 
On which the snail will climb & dwell 
For three weeks in its painted shell 
There the white nosed ‘clock a clay’ 
Red & black spot[t]ed sits all day

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Love is

Love is of every heart the painted toy

The idol of man’s worship — faces fair
Were my enchanted magic from a boy
The pouting lip the colour of the hair
Left me in raptures next of kin to care
I loved & wooed them in the field like gems

Of too much value for the clown who sung
The azure bluebells in their sapphire stems
Among green bushes low their mute bells hung
These seemed loves modest maidens dew bestrung
With blebs o' mornings glittering pearls
I loved them in the valleys where I sung

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The hedge rose

The hedge rose blossoms like thy face
Sweet red & white together
& shadows wave about the place
Where branches twist together

The leaves dance to a merry tune
& boughs wave like to billows
A flowry carpet throughout june
& concert in the willows

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All delight

The season now is all delight

Sweet smile the passing hours
& Summers pleasures at their height
Are sweet as are her flowers
The purple morning waken'd soon
The middays gleaming din
Grey evening with her silver moon
Are sweet to mingle in
While waking doves betake to flight
From off each roosting bough
While Natures locks are wet with night
How sweet to wander now

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The orchis tribes

Haunting thy mossy steeps to botanize

& hunt the orchis tribes where natures skill

Doth like my thoughts run into phantasies

Spider & bee all mimicking at will

Displaying powers that fool the proudly wise

Showing the wonders of great natures plan

In trifles insignificant & small

Puzzling the power of that great trifle man

Who finds no reason to be proud at all

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