 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
A FAITHLESS SHEPHERD
A faithless shepherd courted me,
He stole away my liberty.
When my poor heart was strange to men,
He came and smiled and stole it then.
He stole away my liberty.
When my poor heart was strange to men,
He came and smiled and stole it then.
154
When my apron would hang low,
Me he sought through frost and snow.
When it puckered up with shame,
And I sought him, he never came.
Me he sought through frost and snow.
When it puckered up with shame,
And I sought him, he never came.
When summer brought no fears to fright,
He came to guard me every night.
When winter nights did darkly prove,
None came to guard me or to love.
He came to guard me every night.
When winter nights did darkly prove,
None came to guard me or to love.
I wish, I wish, but all in vain,
I wish I was a maid again.
A maid again I cannot be,
Oh, when will green grass cover me?
I wish I was a maid again.
A maid again I cannot be,
Oh, when will green grass cover me?
I wish my babe had ne'er been born,
I've made its pillow on a thorn,
I wish my sorrows all away,
My soul with God, my body clay.
I've made its pillow on a thorn,
I wish my sorrows all away,
My soul with God, my body clay.
He promised beds as fine as silk
And sheets for love as white as milk,
But when he'd won my heart away
Left me to want a bed of clay.
And sheets for love as white as milk,
But when he'd won my heart away
Left me to want a bed of clay.
He kept his sheep on yonder hill,
His heart seemed soft but it was steel;
I ran with love and was undone,
Oh, had I walked ere I did run!
His heart seemed soft but it was steel;
I ran with love and was undone,
Oh, had I walked ere I did run!
He has two hearts and I have none,
He'll be a rogue, when I am gone,
To thee my baby, unto thee,
As he has been too long to me.
He'll be a rogue, when I am gone,
To thee my baby, unto thee,
As he has been too long to me.
I weep the past, I dread the gloom
Of sorrows in the time to come,
When thou without a friend shalt be,
Weeping on a stranger's knee.
Of sorrows in the time to come,
When thou without a friend shalt be,
Weeping on a stranger's knee.
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I wish, my child, thou'dst ne'er been born,
I've made thy pillow on a thorn,
I wish our sorrows both away,
Our souls with God, our bodies clay.
I've made thy pillow on a thorn,
I wish our sorrows both away,
Our souls with God, our bodies clay.
| The Poems of John Clare | |