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 |  |
MILK MAIDS LAMENT
Gone is my Jemmey fond loves only treasure
& with him loves rounds of years summers did flee
For winter as then was a summer of pleasure
But summer reversd nows a winter to me
His looks was a flower on the cold mows a blooming
When winter extended his ravages wide
His smiles were as suns for to cheer the storms glooming
When I wanderd a milking & snudg'd by his side
& with him loves rounds of years summers did flee
For winter as then was a summer of pleasure
But summer reversd nows a winter to me
His looks was a flower on the cold mows a blooming
When winter extended his ravages wide
His smiles were as suns for to cheer the storms glooming
When I wanderd a milking & snudg'd by his side
But now all alone I do face the bleak pastures
& like a lone awthorn or oddling tree
Im now a nak'd becon for winters dissasters
No one comes to offer a shelter to me
Gone is my jemmy that threw his arm round me
& bore home my milk pails & milked my cow
The tempest may blow & the rain storm may drownd me
Theres near a kind heart to be meeting me now
& like a lone awthorn or oddling tree
Im now a nak'd becon for winters dissasters
No one comes to offer a shelter to me
Gone is my jemmy that threw his arm round me
& bore home my milk pails & milked my cow
The tempest may blow & the rain storm may drownd me
Theres near a kind heart to be meeting me now
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Like the odd larking upon the bleak meadows
& lorn mopeing q[u]ail on the hard frozen lea
Which the Gun of the hard hearted swain has made widows
I meet the sad trouble that war bringeth me
All hopes they are vain while the grim war is scowling
Its fate may already alight on him now
Thus sighd a lorn maid to the winter winds howling
Whose eyes swum wi tears as she rose from her cow
& lorn mopeing q[u]ail on the hard frozen lea
Which the Gun of the hard hearted swain has made widows
I meet the sad trouble that war bringeth me
All hopes they are vain while the grim war is scowling
Its fate may already alight on him now
Thus sighd a lorn maid to the winter winds howling
Whose eyes swum wi tears as she rose from her cow
| The early poems of John Clare | |