The later poems of John Clare 1837-1864 ... General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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WHEN I MEET A BONNY LASSIE |
The later poems of John Clare | ||
WHEN I MEET A BONNY LASSIE
When I meet a bonny lassie My heart burns in my breast
And a little further passes She robs me of all rest
I think of her all night and I think of her all day
Whom my path met in delight Among the meadow hay
And a little further passes She robs me of all rest
I think of her all night and I think of her all day
Whom my path met in delight Among the meadow hay
The downy bents all talk it That pat agen my hose
And the bees they winna balk it That a honey hunting goes
They sing it on the blossom They sing it in the grass
How my heart fled from my bosom When I met the blushing lass
And the bees they winna balk it That a honey hunting goes
They sing it on the blossom They sing it in the grass
How my heart fled from my bosom When I met the blushing lass
I met her in a pleasant place Mong burnet buttons many
She had a round and rosey face And seemed more sweet than any
My heart seemed burnt to crall at all, My heart turned icy pale
And graceful bowed the feathered reed And swept the southern gale
She had a round and rosey face And seemed more sweet than any
My heart seemed burnt to crall at all, My heart turned icy pale
And graceful bowed the feathered reed And swept the southern gale
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I met her in the narrow path No room for two to pass
The butterfly it pleasures hath To fly about the grass
I could not fly but lightly pressed scarce treading in the hay
A look upon her gown I cast which stole my vacant eyes away
The butterfly it pleasures hath To fly about the grass
I could not fly but lightly pressed scarce treading in the hay
A look upon her gown I cast which stole my vacant eyes away
When I met the bonny lassie My heart burnt through my breast
And passed her in the king-cups brassy I lost both thought and rest
I think upon her half the day And all the live long night
The cockle and the rye looks gay But I'm a wretched wite
And passed her in the king-cups brassy I lost both thought and rest
I think upon her half the day And all the live long night
The cockle and the rye looks gay But I'm a wretched wite
The later poems of John Clare | ||