Life and Remains of John Clare Part 16

And I would go to Patty's cot, And Patty came to me; Each knew the other's very thought Under the hawthorn tree.

And Patty had a kiss to give, And Patty had a smile, To bid me hope and bid me love, At every stopping stile.

We loved one Summer quite away, And when another came, The cowslip close and sunny day, It found us much the same.

We both looked on the selfsame thing, Till both became as one; The birds did in the hedges sing, And happy time went on.

The brambles from the hedge advance, In love with Patty's eyes: On flowers, like ladies at a dance, Flew scores of b.u.t.terflies.

I claimed a kiss at every stile, And had her kind replies.

The bees did round the woodbine toil, Where sweet the small wind sighs.

Then Patty was a slight young thing; Now she's long past her teens; And we've been married many springs, And mixed in many scenes.

And I'll be true for Patty's sake, And she'll be true for mine; And I this little ballad make, To be her valentine.

MY TRUE LOVE IS A SAILOR

'T was somewhere in the April time, Not long before the May, A-sitting on a bank o' thyme I heard a maiden say, "My true love is a sailor, And ere he went away We spent a year together, And here my lover lay.

The gold furze was in blossom, So was the daisy too; The dew-drops on the little flowers Were emeralds in hue.

On this same Summer morning, Though then the Sabbath day, He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, Beneath the whitethorn may.

He crop't me Spring pol'ant'uses, And said if they would keep They'd tell me of love's fantasies, For dews on them did weep.

And I did weep at parting, Which lasted all the week; And when he turned for starting My full heart could not speak.

The same roots grow pol'ant'us' flowers Beneath the same haw-tree; I crop't them in morn's dewy hours, And here love's offerings be.

O come to me my sailor beau And ease my aching breast; The storms shall cease to rave and blow, And here thy life find rest."

THE SAILOR'S RETURN

The whitethorn is budding and rushes are green, The ivy leaves rustle around the ash tree, On the sweet sunny bank blue violets are seen, That tremble beneath the wild hum of the bee.

The sunbeams they play on the brook's plashy ripples, Like millions of suns in each swirl looking on; The rush nods and bows till its ta.s.seled head tipples Right into the wimpled flood, kissing the stones.

'T was down in the cow pasture, just at the gloaming, I met a young woman sweet tempered and mild, I said "Pretty maiden, say, where are you roving?"

"I'm walking at even," she answered, and smiled.

"Here my sweetheart and I gathered posies at even; It's eight years ago since they sent him to sea.

Wild flowers hung with dew are like angels from heaven: They look up in my face and keep whispering to me.

They whisper the tales that were told by my true love; In the evening and morning they glisten with dew; They say (bonny blossoms) 'I'll ne'er get a new love; I love her; she's kindly.' I say, 'I love him too.'"

The pa.s.sing-by stranger's a stranger no longer; He kissed off the teardrop which fell from her e'e; With blue-jacket and trousers he is bigger and stronger; 'T is her own constant w.i.l.l.y returned from the sea.

BIRDS, WHY ARE YE SILENT?

Why are ye silent, Birds?

Where do ye fly?

Winter's not violent, With such a Spring sky.

The wheatlands are green, snow and frost are away, Birds, why are ye silent on such a sweet day?

By the slated pig-stye The redbreast scarce whispers: Where last Autumn's leaves lie The hedge sparrow just lispers.

And why are the chaffinch and bullfinch so still, While the sulphur primroses bedeck the wood hill?

The bright yellow-hammers Are strutting about, All still, and none stammers A single note out.

From the hedge starts the blackbird, at brook side to drink: I thought he'd have whistled, but he only said "prink."

The tree-creeper hustles Up fir's rusty bark; All silent he bustles; We needn't say hark.

There's no song in the forest, in field, or in wood, Yet the sun gilds the gra.s.s as though come in for good.

How bright the odd daisies Peep under the stubbs!

How bright pilewort blazes Where ruddled sheep rubs The old willow trunk by the side of the brook, Where soon for blue violets the children will look!

By the cot green and mossy Feed sparrow and hen: On the ridge brown and glossy They cluck now and then.

The wren c.o.c.ks his tail o'er his back by the stye, Where his green bottle nest will be made by and bye.

Here's bunches of chickweed, With small starry flowers, Where red-caps oft pick seed In hungry Spring hours.

And blue cap and black cap, in glossy Spring coat, Are a-peeping in buds without singing a note.

Why silent should birds be And suns.h.i.+ne so warm?

Larks hide where the herds be By cottage and farm.

If wild flowers were blooming and fully set in the Spring May-be all the birdies would cheerfully sing.

MEET ME TO-NIGHT

O meet me to-night by the bright starlight, Now the pleasant Spring's begun.

My own dear maid, by the greenwood shade, In the crimson set of the sun, Meet me to-night.

The sun he goes down with a ruby crown To a gold and crimson bed; And the falling dew, from heaven so blue, Hangs pearls on Phoebe's head.

Love, leave the town.

Come thou with me; 'neath the green-leaf tree We'll crop the bonny sweet brere.

O come, dear maid, 'neath the hazlewood shade, For love invites us there.

Come then with me.

The owl pops, scarce seen, from the ivy green, With his spectacles on I ween: See the moon's above and the stars twinkle, love; Better time was never seen.

O come, my queen.

The fox he stops, and down he drops His head beneath the gra.s.s.

The birds are gone; we're all alone; O come, my bonny la.s.s.

Come, O come!