The later poems of John Clare 1837-1864 ... General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
THE SEQUEL TO JOHN BARLEYCORN
WHEN saucy Ale and I were young,
I told him to his face,
I'd put the tyrant in a song,
And bring him to disgrace.
I told him to his face,
I'd put the tyrant in a song,
And bring him to disgrace.
But he would always give the lie,
And always bade me note;
He'd ever keep my pocket dry,
And leave me scarce a groat.
And always bade me note;
He'd ever keep my pocket dry,
And leave me scarce a groat.
And when I blew his froth away,
He vowed he'd make me rue;
I tried to beat him every year,
But sure he said the true.
He vowed he'd make me rue;
I tried to beat him every year,
But sure he said the true.
23
The coat had scarce a bit to own,
The hat was bare and brown,
All torn and open at the top,
Like pot-lid hanging down.
The hat was bare and brown,
All torn and open at the top,
Like pot-lid hanging down.
The maiden laughed, and well she might,
To see me brought so low;
And when I could not bear my plight,
I scarce had leg to go.
To see me brought so low;
And when I could not bear my plight,
I scarce had leg to go.
And when I gave him all I had,
He served me all the worse;
I lacked the friend who then might say—
‘Keep something in your purse.’
He served me all the worse;
I lacked the friend who then might say—
‘Keep something in your purse.’
The scarecrow had a better hat,
Which cost but half a-crown;
And when I looked for Beauty's smile,
I only got her frown.
Which cost but half a-crown;
And when I looked for Beauty's smile,
I only got her frown.
She turned her nose up at the coat,
With ‘Go, you drunkard, go!’
I found, while Ale was still a friend,
In each beside a foe.
With ‘Go, you drunkard, go!’
I found, while Ale was still a friend,
In each beside a foe.
He often bade me string my purse,
I tried to bear the jest;
I got a wife, I could not spend,
And bade him do his best.
I tried to bear the jest;
I got a wife, I could not spend,
And bade him do his best.
He laughed at all the books I got
To while the night along;
He called them all but silly stuff,
And lit his pipe with song!
To while the night along;
He called them all but silly stuff,
And lit his pipe with song!
I waited like the trampled grass,
That might look up in spring;
I tried and got a better coat:
Now let him laugh and sing!
That might look up in spring;
I tried and got a better coat:
Now let him laugh and sing!
24
He ground me on, he kept me down,
And made me no amends;
I tried, and found the sober truth,
That robbers are no friends!
And made me no amends;
I tried, and found the sober truth,
That robbers are no friends!
| The later poems of John Clare | |