 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
478
CHILDHOOD
Oh, dear to us ever the scenes of our childhood,
The green spots we played in, the school where we met,
The heavy old desk where we thought of the wild wood,
Where we pored o'er the sums which the master had set.
I loved the old church school both inside and outside,
I loved the dear ash-trees and sycamore too,
The graves where the buttercups burning gold outvied,
And the spire where pellitory dangled and grew,
The green spots we played in, the school where we met,
The heavy old desk where we thought of the wild wood,
Where we pored o'er the sums which the master had set.
I loved the old church school both inside and outside,
I loved the dear ash-trees and sycamore too,
The graves where the buttercups burning gold outvied,
And the spire where pellitory dangled and grew,
479
The bees in the wall that were flying about
The thistles, the henbane and mallows all day,
And crept in the hole when the sun had gone out
And the butterfly ceased on the blossoms to play.
Oh, clear is the round stone upon the green hill,
The pinfold hoof-printed with oxen and bare,
The old prince's-feather-tree growing there still,
And the swallows and martins whirling round in the air;
The thistles, the henbane and mallows all day,
And crept in the hole when the sun had gone out
And the butterfly ceased on the blossoms to play.
Oh, clear is the round stone upon the green hill,
The pinfold hoof-printed with oxen and bare,
The old prince's-feather-tree growing there still,
And the swallows and martins whirling round in the air;
Where the chaff whipping outwards lodges round the barn door,
And the dunghill cock struts with his hens in the rear,
And sings ‘Cock-a-doodle’ full twenty times o'er,
And then claps his wings as he'd fly in the air;
And there's the old cross with its roundabout steps,
And the weathercock creaking quite round in the wind,
And there's the old hedge with its glossy red hips,
Where the green linnet's nest I have hurried to find
And the dunghill cock struts with his hens in the rear,
And sings ‘Cock-a-doodle’ full twenty times o'er,
And then claps his wings as he'd fly in the air;
And there's the old cross with its roundabout steps,
And the weathercock creaking quite round in the wind,
And there's the old hedge with its glossy red hips,
Where the green linnet's nest I have hurried to find
To be in time for the school or before the bell rung;
There's the odd martins' nest o'er the shoemaker's door;
On the shoemaker's chimney the old swallows sung
That had built and sung there in the season before;
Then we went to seek pooties among the old furze
On the heaths, in the meadows, beside the deep lake,
And returned with torn clothes all covered wi' burs,
And oh, what a row my fond mother would make!
There's the odd martins' nest o'er the shoemaker's door;
On the shoemaker's chimney the old swallows sung
That had built and sung there in the season before;
Then we went to seek pooties among the old furze
On the heaths, in the meadows, beside the deep lake,
And returned with torn clothes all covered wi' burs,
And oh, what a row my fond mother would make!
Then to play boiling kettles just by the yard door,
Seeking out for short sticks and a bundle of straw;
Bits of pots stand for teacups after sweeping the floor,
And the children are placed under schoolmistress' awe;
There's one set for pussy, another for doll,
And for butter and bread they'd each nibble a haw,
And on a great stone as a table they loll,
The finest small tea-party ever you saw.
Seeking out for short sticks and a bundle of straw;
Bits of pots stand for teacups after sweeping the floor,
And the children are placed under schoolmistress' awe;
There's one set for pussy, another for doll,
And for butter and bread they'd each nibble a haw,
And on a great stone as a table they loll,
The finest small tea-party ever you saw.
The stiles we rode upon ‘all-a-cock-horse,’
The mile-a-minute swee
On creaking gate, the stools o' moss,
What happy seats had we!
There's naught can compare to the days of our childhood,
The mole-hills like sheep in a pen,
Where the clodhopper sings like the bird in the wild wood,
All forgotten before we are men.
The mile-a-minute swee
480
What happy seats had we!
There's naught can compare to the days of our childhood,
The mole-hills like sheep in a pen,
Where the clodhopper sings like the bird in the wild wood,
All forgotten before we are men.
| The Poems of John Clare | |