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 early poems of John Clare |  |
211
THE GIPSEY
Poor nell let a gipsey drink out of her pail
To tell her her fortune if lovers wer true
While robin her swain hind a thorn i' the vale
A chatting wi susey kept out of her view
& soon as he saw the old red cloaked preacher
He brusht up to nelly her fortune to know
‘& what nelly’ fleering said he ‘says yer teacher
‘A bag full of riches & husbands I trow’
To tell her her fortune if lovers wer true
While robin her swain hind a thorn i' the vale
A chatting wi susey kept out of her view
& soon as he saw the old red cloaked preacher
He brusht up to nelly her fortune to know
‘& what nelly’ fleering said he ‘says yer teacher
‘A bag full of riches & husbands I trow’
& ye shut yer mouth & no jokes be ye blobbing
To them gets yer kisses yer jokes may be spard
& them ye ha' bin wi' there go agen robin
The gipseys good cautions put me on my guard
& if ye mun know on't ye good for nought rover
She sed if I een took a sweep to be mine
Nay find who I woud to be husband or lover
Theyd own not a heart so decietful as thine
To them gets yer kisses yer jokes may be spard
& them ye ha' bin wi' there go agen robin
The gipseys good cautions put me on my guard
& if ye mun know on't ye good for nought rover
She sed if I een took a sweep to be mine
Nay find who I woud to be husband or lover
Theyd own not a heart so decietful as thine
& robin gan call the old sorc'rer a beadle
& vowd she told falsly—‘but hold’ sed the dame
‘Who lay in yer arms when ye calld for a feedle
‘Behint yonder busk as my mow & I came
‘On where ye arch rogue is the gipsey so early
As washing her clags by the side o' the tent
When ye winkt yer eye held yer thumb tow['r]d the barley
& woud gen [her] a groat—if shed gen her consent
& vowd she told falsly—‘but hold’ sed the dame
‘Who lay in yer arms when ye calld for a feedle
‘Behint yonder busk as my mow & I came
212
As washing her clags by the side o' the tent
When ye winkt yer eye held yer thumb tow['r]d the barley
& woud gen [her] a groat—if shed gen her consent
| The early poems of John Clare | |