The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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THE POETS WISH |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
489
THE POETS WISH
A wish will rise in every breast
For somthing more then whats possest
Some trifle still or more or less
To make compleat ones happiness
& feth a wish will oft incline
To harbour in this breast of mine
& oft old fortune hears my case
Told's plain's the nose upon her face
But vainly do we beggars plead
Altho not askd before we need
Old fortune like sly farmer dapple
Where theres an orchard flings her apple
But where theres no return to make ye
She turns her nose up ‘deuce may take ye’
So riches get their wealth at will
& beggars why the'yre beggars still—
But tis not thoughts of being rich
That makes my wishing spirit itch
Tis just an independant fate
Betwixt the little & the great
No out oth' way nor random wish
No ladle crav'd for silver dish
Tis but a comfortable seat
While without work both ends would meet
To just get hand to mouth with ease
& read & study as I please
A little garret warm & high
As loves the muse sublime to flye
With all my Friends encircl'd round
In golden letters richly bound
Dear English poets luckless fellows
As born to such—so fate will tell us
Might I their flowrey themes peruse
& be as happy in my muse
Like them sublimly high to soar
Without their fate—so cursed poor
For somthing more then whats possest
Some trifle still or more or less
To make compleat ones happiness
& feth a wish will oft incline
To harbour in this breast of mine
& oft old fortune hears my case
Told's plain's the nose upon her face
But vainly do we beggars plead
Altho not askd before we need
Old fortune like sly farmer dapple
Where theres an orchard flings her apple
But where theres no return to make ye
She turns her nose up ‘deuce may take ye’
So riches get their wealth at will
& beggars why the'yre beggars still—
But tis not thoughts of being rich
That makes my wishing spirit itch
Tis just an independant fate
Betwixt the little & the great
No out oth' way nor random wish
No ladle crav'd for silver dish
490
While without work both ends would meet
To just get hand to mouth with ease
& read & study as I please
A little garret warm & high
As loves the muse sublime to flye
With all my Friends encircl'd round
In golden letters richly bound
Dear English poets luckless fellows
As born to such—so fate will tell us
Might I their flowrey themes peruse
& be as happy in my muse
Like them sublimly high to soar
Without their fate—so cursed poor
While one snug room not over small
Containd my ness[ess]ary all
& night & day left me secure
'Mong books my chiefest furniture
With littering papers many a bit
Scrawld by the muse in fancied fit—
& curse upon that routing jade
My territorys to invade
That found me out in evil hour
To brush & clean & scrub & scour
& with a dreaded brush & broom
Disturbd my learned lumber room
Such Busy things I hate to see
Such troublers neer should trouble me
Let dust keep gathering on the ground
& roaping cobwebs dangle round
—Let spiders weave their webs at will
Would cash when wanted pockets fill
To pint it just at my desire
& drooping muse with ale inspire
& fetch at least a roll of bread
Without a debt to run or dread
Such Comforts wou'd they were but mine
To somthing more I'd neer Incline
But happiest then of happy Clowns
Id sing all cares away
& pitying heads thats capt with crowns
Id see more joys then they
Containd my ness[ess]ary all
& night & day left me secure
'Mong books my chiefest furniture
With littering papers many a bit
Scrawld by the muse in fancied fit—
& curse upon that routing jade
My territorys to invade
That found me out in evil hour
To brush & clean & scrub & scour
& with a dreaded brush & broom
Disturbd my learned lumber room
Such Busy things I hate to see
Such troublers neer should trouble me
Let dust keep gathering on the ground
& roaping cobwebs dangle round
491
Would cash when wanted pockets fill
To pint it just at my desire
& drooping muse with ale inspire
& fetch at least a roll of bread
Without a debt to run or dread
Such Comforts wou'd they were but mine
To somthing more I'd neer Incline
But happiest then of happy Clowns
Id sing all cares away
& pitying heads thats capt with crowns
Id see more joys then they
Thus wishd a bard—whom fortune scorns
To find a Rose among the thorns
& musing oer each heavy care
His pen stuck usless in his hair
His muse was dampt—nor fir'd his soul
& still unearn'd his penny roll
Th'unfinish'd labours of his head
Was listless on the table spread
When lo!—to bid him hope no more
A rap—an Earthquake! jars the door
His heart drops in his shoes with doubt
‘What fiend has found my lodging out?’
Poor trembling tenants of the quill
—‘Here sir I bring my masters bill—
He heavd a sigh & scratchd his head
& Credits mouth wi' promise fed
Then Set in terror down again
Invok'd the muse & scrig'd a strain
A trifling somthing glad to get
To earn a dinner & discharge the debt
To find a Rose among the thorns
& musing oer each heavy care
His pen stuck usless in his hair
His muse was dampt—nor fir'd his soul
& still unearn'd his penny roll
Th'unfinish'd labours of his head
Was listless on the table spread
When lo!—to bid him hope no more
A rap—an Earthquake! jars the door
His heart drops in his shoes with doubt
‘What fiend has found my lodging out?’
Poor trembling tenants of the quill
—‘Here sir I bring my masters bill—
He heavd a sigh & scratchd his head
& Credits mouth wi' promise fed
492
Invok'd the muse & scrig'd a strain
A trifling somthing glad to get
To earn a dinner & discharge the debt
| The early poems of John Clare | |