The early poems of John Clare :: :: University of Virginia Library

O cruel War when will thy horrors cease
And all thy slaughtering of poor men give oer
O sheath O sheath thy bloody blade in peace
Nor stain thy hand with human blood no more

See at yon door were round the children swarm
The piteous object of thy rage appears
Thou'st left him nothing but a single arm
Both legs are gone & he is old in years

O shatter'd man did ever eyes behold
A more distressing form of misery
Sure no good Christian heart will ere withold
His worthy deeds of Charity from thee

I'll sit me down and hear his woful tale
And here he comes & noising at his heels
The Laughing boys too—O can Laughs prevail
But they are young and know not what he feels

Poor shatter'd fragment how he stumps the streets
And how contentedly he seems to be
He tells his woful tale to all he meets
And now he'll tell his woful tale to me

‘O christian friend do pity & relieve
‘A poor and pitious object in distress
‘Say not I mean your goodness to decieve
‘Look at these stumps they'll soon the truth confes’

Thus far proceeded—ah poor soul I cried
The truth too true with grief at heart I see
And tho thy wants can be but ill suplied
Yet what I have I'll gladly share with thee

He plac'd his crutch & rais'd his silver'd head
Which seem'd at this to wear a joyful cast
‘Here take my hand my only hand he said
‘And let me greet a brother found at last’

‘O what I owe the tender feeling poor
‘Since I've been brought to this sad state you see
‘Ne'er have I left their lowly welcome Door
‘Without some token of their Charity’

‘But O in vain (it grieves me to relate)
‘These wooden stumps & this poor armless side
‘Attracts the pity of the rich & great
‘They deem my sorrows far beneath their pride’

‘Yon house that shows its owners wealth & power
‘Lur'd me to ask relief but ask'd in vain
‘A scornful proudling drove me from the door
‘To crave a morsel from the needy swain’

‘But ah ye Rich as rich as you may be
‘You—tho You fancy you can't want no more
‘May by misfortune be reduc'd like me
‘And glad to beg a crust from door to door’

But stay thy rage my heart & let them rest
And to this tender friend thy woes reveal
Thou'rt provd all hardships the[e]ve been ever blest
And neer experiencd what it is to feel

These sixty years & heavens knows it true
I've fought my countrys freedom to mentain
And spite of all the dangers Ive gone through
It was my fortune to come home again

But little thought I Land I dearly prize
That I should stump thy plains without a leg
And O my parents (here he wipd his eyes)
But little thought friend I was born to beg

But ah none knows what they are doom'd to see
Riches my friend that boasts to want no more
May by his fortunes be brought down like me
And glad to beg a crust from door to door

For you must know my bringing up was good
My friends liv'd well and brought me up at school
And now might I h' been happy if I wou'd
But fate ordain'd that I should play the fool

The school I hated playing was my joy
And soldier playing was my dearest game
When—tho an age that scarce compleats the boy
At twelve years old a soldier I became

My youthful heart with vain ambition fir'd
And with the hopes of future glory stird
I fled my home and ere the day expir'd
I stood a private in the sixty third

A unexpeirenc'd youth & unadvis'd
Those golden fancies which delighted thee
Now must they all be provd & reallizd
And soon by fate it was ordaind to be

For little better than a week was spent
From the commencement of our new career
Before ou[r] serjant had his orders sent
That we should march & mar[c]h I knew not where