Life and Remains of John Clare Part 17

YOUNG JENNY

The c.o.c.kchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane Where the wild roses hang and the woodbines entwine, And the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again Round the side of the tavern close by the sign.

The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen, In curtains the richest that ever were seen.

The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain, And, beating the hedges, low fly the barn owls; The moon with her horns is just peeping again, And deep in the forest the dog-badger howls; In best bib and tucker then wanders my Jane By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane.

On a sweet eventide I walk by her side; In green hoods the daisies have shut up their eyes.

Young Jenny is handsome without any pride; Her eyes (O how bright!) have the hue of the skies.

O 'tis pleasant to walk by the side of my Jane At the close of the day, down the mossy green lane.

We stand by the brook, by the gate, and the stile, While the even star hangs out his lamp in the sky; And 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.

ADIEU!

"Adieu, my love, adieu!

Be constant and be true As the daisies gemmed with dew, Bonny maid."

The cows their thirst were slaking, Trees the playful winds were shaking; Sweet songs the birds were making In the shade.

The moss upon the tree Was as green as green could be, The clover on the lea Ruddy glowed; Leaves were silver with the dew, Where the tall sowthistles grew, And I bade the maid adieu On the road.

Then I took myself to sea, While the little chiming bee Sung his ballad on the lea, Humming sweet; And the red-winged b.u.t.terfly Was sailing through the sky, Skimming up and bouncing by Near my feet.

I left the little birds, And sweet lowing of the herds, And couldn't find out words, Do you see, To say to them good bye, Where the yellow cups do lie; So heaving a deep sigh, Took to sea.

MY BONNY ALICE AND HER PITCHER

There's a bonny place in Scotland, Where a little spring is found; There Nature shows her honest face The whole year round.

Where the whitethorn branches, full of may, Hung near the fountain's rim, Where comes sweet Alice every day And dips her pitcher in; A gallon pitcher without ear, She fills it with the water clear.

My bonny Alice she is fair; There's no such other to be found.

Her rosy cheek and dark brown hair-- The fairest maid on Scotland's ground.

And there the heather's pinhead flowers All blossom over bank and brae, While Alice pa.s.ses by the bowers To fill her pitcher every day; The pitcher brown without an ear She dips into the fountain clear.

O Alice, bonny, sweet, and fair, With roses on her cheeks!

The little birds come drinking there, The throstle almost speaks.

He dips his wings and wimples makes Upon the fountain clear, Then vanishes among the brakes For ever singing near; While Alice, listening, stands to hear, And dips her pitcher without ear.

O Alice, bonny Alice, fair, Thy pleasant face I love; Thy red-rose cheek, thy dark brown hair, Thy soft eyes, like a dove.

I see thee by the fountain stand, With the sweet smiling face; There's not a maid in all the land With such bewitching grace As Alice, who is drawing near, To dip the pitcher without ear.

THE MAIDEN I LOVE

How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting.

How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove!

But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain Is the beauty that walks here--the maiden I love.

Her black hair in tangles The rose briar mangles; Her lips and soft cheeks, Where love ever speaks: O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love.

It was down in the wild flowers, among brakes and brambles, I met the sweet maiden so dear to my eye, In one of my Sunday morn midsummer rambles, Among the sweet wild blossoms blooming close by.

Her hair it was coal black, Hung loose down her back; In her hand she held posies Of blooming primroses, The maiden who pa.s.sed on the morning of love.

Coal black was her silk hair that shaded white shoulders; Ruby red were her ripe lips, her cheeks of soft hue; Her sweet smiles, enchanting the eyes of beholders, Thrilled my heart as she rambled the wild blossoms through.

Like the pearl, her bright eye; In trembling delight I Kissed her cheek, like a rose In its gentlest repose.

O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love!

TO JENNY LIND

I cannot touch the harp again, And sing another idle lay, To cool a maddening, burning brain, And drive the midnight fiend away.

Music, own sister to the soul.

Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale; And sweet her joys and sorrows roll When sings the Swedish Nightingale.

I cannot touch the harp again; No chords will vibrate on the string; Like broken flowers upon the plain, My heart e'en withers while I sing.

Aeolian harps have witching tones, On morning or the evening gale; No melody their music owns As sings the Swedish nightingale.

LITTLE TROTTY WAGTAIL

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again.

He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.

Little trotty wagtail he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would.

He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail, And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.

Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye, So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good bye.

THE FOREST MAID

O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still; I courted her in happiness for two short years or more.