Life and Remains of John Clare Part 18

And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill, For my little of life's happiness is faded and is o'er.

O fair was Mary Littlechild, and happy as the bee, And sweet was bonny Mary as the song of forest bird; And the smile upon her red lips was very dear to me, And her tale of love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard.

O the flower of all the forest was Mary Littlechild; There's few could be so dear to me and none could be so fair.

While many love the garden flowers I still esteem the wild, And Mary of the forest is the fairest blossom there.

She's fairer than the may flowers that bloom among the thorn, She's dearer to my eye than the rose upon the brere; Her eye is brighter far than the bonny pearls of morn, And the name of Mary Littlechild is to me ever dear.

O once I loved a pretty girl. The linnet in its mirth Was never half so blest as I with Mary Littlechild-- The rose of the creation, and the pink of all the earth, The flower of all the forest, and the best for being wild.

O sweet are dews of morning, ere the Autumn blows so chill,-- And sweet are forest flowers in the hawthorn's mossy shade, But nothing is so fair, and nothing ever will Bloom like the rosy cheek of my bonny Forest Maid.

BONNY MARY O!

The morning opens fine, bonny Mary O!

The robin sings his song by the dairy O!

Where the little Jenny wrens c.o.c.k their tails among the hens, Singing morning's happy songs with Mary O!

The swallow's on the wing, bonny Mary O!

Where the rushes fringe the spring, bonny Mary O!

Where the cowslips do unfold, shaking ta.s.sels all of gold, Which make the milk so sweet, bonny Mary O!

There's the yellowhammer's nest, bonny Mary O!

Where she hides her golden breast, bonny Mary O!

On her mystic eggs she dwells, with strange writing on their sh.e.l.ls, Hid in the mossy gra.s.s, bonny Mary O!

There the spotted cow gets food, bonny Mary O!

And chews her peaceful cud, bonny Mary O!

In the molehills and the bushes, and the clear brook fringed with rushes, To fill the evening pail, bonny Mary O!

Where the gnat swarms fall and rise under evenings' mellow skies, And on flags sleep dragon flies, bonny Mary O!

And I will meet thee there, bonny Mary O!

When a-milking you repair, bonny Mary O!

And I'll kiss thee on the gra.s.s, my buxom, bonny la.s.s, And be thine own for aye, bonny Mary O!

LOVE'S EMBLEM

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace: How happy should I prove, Could I supply that envied place With never-fading love.

Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows, This pure, unsullied gem, Love's emblem in a full-blown rose, Just broken from the stem.

Accept it as a favourite flower For thy soft breast to wear; 'Twill blossom there its transient hour, A favourite of the fair.

Upon thy cheek its blossom glows, As from a mirror clear, Making thyself a living rose, In blossom all the year.

It is a sweet and favourite flower To grace a maiden's brow, Emblem of love without its power-- A sweeter rose art thou.

The rose, like hues of insect wing, May perish in an hour; 'T is but at best a fading thing, But thou'rt a living flower.

The roses steeped in morning dews Would every eye enthrall, But woman, she alone subdues; Her beauty conquers all.

THE MORNING WALK

The linnet sat upon its nest, By gales of morning softly prest, His green wing and his greener breast Were damp with dews of morning: The dog-rose near the oaktree grew, Blush'd swelling 'neath a veil of dew, A pink's nest to its p.r.i.c.kles grew, Right early in the morning.

The suns.h.i.+ne glittered gold, the while A country maiden clomb the stile; Her straw hat couldn't hide the smile That blushed like early morning.

The lark, with feathers all wet through, Looked up above the gla.s.sy dew, And to the neighbouring corn-field flew, Fanning the gales of morning.

In every bush was heard a song, On each gra.s.s blade, the whole way long, A silver s.h.i.+ning drop there hung, The milky dew of morning.

Where stepping-stones stride o'er the brook The rosy maid I overtook.

How ruddy was her healthy look, So early in the morning!

I took her by the well-turned arm, And led her over field and farm, And kissed her tender cheek so warm, A rose in early morning.

The spiders' lacework shone like gla.s.s, Tied up to flowers and cat-tail gra.s.s; The dew-drops bounced before the la.s.s, Sprinkling the early morning.

Her dark curls fanned among the gales, The skylark whistled o'er the vales, I told her love's delightful tales Among the dews of morning.

She crop't a flower, shook oft' the dew, And on her breast the wild rose grew; She blushed as fair, as lovely, too-- The living rose of morning.

TO MISS C.....

Thy glance is the brightest, Thy voice is the sweetest, Thy step is the lightest, Thy shape the completest: Thy waist I could span, dear, Thy neck's like a swan's, dear, And roses the sweetest On thy cheeks do appear.

The music of Spring Is the voice of my charmer.

When the nightingales sing She's as sweet; who would harm her?

Where the snowdrop or lily lies They show her face, but her eyes Are the dark clouds, yet warmer, From which the quick lightning flies O'er the face of my charmer.

Her faith is the snowdrop, So pure on its stem; And love in her bosom She wears as a gem; She is young as Spring flowers, And sweet as May showers, Swelling the clover buds, and bending the stem, She's the sweetest of blossoms, she love's favourite gem.

I PLUCK SUMMER BLOSSOMS

I pluck Summer blossoms, And think of rich bosoms-- The bosoms I've leaned on, and wors.h.i.+pped, and won.

The rich valley lilies, The wood daffodillies, Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun.

Where I plucked thee the bluebell, 'T was where the night dew fell, And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers; I shook the sweet posies, Bluebells and brere roses, As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours.

Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos, With freck'd lip and hooked nose, Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods, And water blobs, ladies' smocks, Blooming where hayc.o.c.ks May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods.