The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
 | I. |
|
|
Epistle 1st from Richard |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| II. |
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
Epistle 1st from Richard
Dear kate
Since I no longer canGo on in such a mopeing plan
I send these lines with ham and hum
To let the[e] ‘no’ I mean to cum'
65
W'en things ar' fitting to agree
For ever since you jog'd from here
The day to me do's seem a year
I can't endur't so 'tis no use
I love you wel' without excuse
Therefore as now I plainly show't
I only wish for you to 'now't
And w'en the let'er you do get
Let it suffice you how I fret
For e'rey night I gang to bed
Nou'ht but kit runs in my he'd
The boys they all keep clit'er clat'er
Wondering w'at can be the mat'er
W'y I look dul'.—and w'ats befel'
They on'y wish I wou'd but tel'
But I'm determind not to do't
They'l' on'y call me foolish fo' 't
Yet not as I shou'd car' for that
'T'wou'd on'y then be tit for tat
But if I bro'ght thy name I 'no'
Up 'mong such chaps as Jim and Jo
(Tho Jim if he 'ad on'y sense)
(To tel' mi'te be of conseq'ence)
For he can reed an' never spel'
(An' 'rite a let'er mons'orous wel')
Was thou to hear't as likly mi''te
'Twou'd presen'ly to'n luv' to spite
An' wou'd so much a terify'd thee
As you ne'er after cou'd abide me
This is the reeson kit (don't dou't it)
That I ne'er tel' the boys about it
For I'll sweet kit the thing is tru'
Do ony thing to pleasur' you
And w'ot you do'n't like sh'u'd be
Shal' be the last thing dun by me
For ere I 'rit this scrauling let'er
(I wish I cou'd ha' 'rit a bet'er)
66
I 'new not 'ardly w'ere to go
Yet anx''us stil' to send you one
I at last contriv'd an' pitch'd upon
Our bushy clos' agen the link
'Twas ther' I went wi' pen an' ink
The ink I stole from Jimys box
For that he 'ardly ever lo'ks
(And if I'm 'ang'd for doing so
It wil' be you that caus'd the wo')
The paper at the shop I got
And lu'ky pitch'd upon this spot
Wher' skilarks wis'l'd oer my head
And morning shun so bri''te an' red
The du on e'rey bush did hing
An' bods of al' so'tes did so sing
That cou'd I sing like farmer's Jo'
(For shep'ads all can sing you 'no')
I'd surely sung this very morn
An' made a song in bushy laun
But thats all now't I can'ot sing
Nor 'bout this lawn nor 'bout the spring
En'uf for me cans't thou but read
This baddy stuf quite bad indeed
An' w'at made worser on't you see
Was writing on't upon my 'nee
But w'y su'h 'pologin odrotit
The stufs for you an' we'n you've got it
Excuse the whol' an' never wonder
That 'tis in all a worthles' blunder
But kitty think nor think in vain
My daily toyls my ni'tely pa'ne
O if thy ''art can tender be
'Twil' never fa'le to pity me
I must konclude ther'fore ad''u
My ''art an' so'le's for' ever tru'
| The early poems of John Clare | |