The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
BALLAD
[Alas what a pity, the maid of the city]
Alas what a pity, the maid of the city
Shoud ere a bin seen by the chaps of our town
For some act as crazy while others turn lazy
& all's out of sorts sin' the day she came down
Her cheeks paint so blooming her clo'hs sweet perfuming
The citys gay tinsel so dazzles the clown
O bother past shunning sin she dash'd from lunon
A bedlams bin made of our unhappy town
Shoud ere a bin seen by the chaps of our town
For some act as crazy while others turn lazy
& all's out of sorts sin' the day she came down
Her cheeks paint so blooming her clo'hs sweet perfuming
The citys gay tinsel so dazzles the clown
O bother past shunning sin she dash'd from lunon
A bedlams bin made of our unhappy town
She passes the ploughmen, they make a low bow mun
While hearts from their bosoms are bidding adieu
She starts the shoemaker whose eye cant forsaker
Tills hawl pricks his fingers as deep as his shoe
The taylor lord love him the lass has undone him
His fingers forsaken its old thimble crown
His needle points broken he's drinking & smoaking
&'s neer stuck to work sin the day she came town
While hearts from their bosoms are bidding adieu
She starts the shoemaker whose eye cant forsaker
Tills hawl pricks his fingers as deep as his shoe
442
His fingers forsaken its old thimble crown
His needle points broken he's drinking & smoaking
&'s neer stuck to work sin the day she came town
Her name theres no telling so hard is the spelling
Ameeley Opheeley or some such a sound
But in the clowns ditty shes ‘flower of the city’
& bodkin neer drinks but the ‘city’ goes round
Ah woe to our village sin she came for pillage
& stole the weak hearts of each thunder struck clown
Poor bodkins & brustles & ploughmen by hustles
Shes playd a sad game wi' our unlucky town
Ameeley Opheeley or some such a sound
But in the clowns ditty shes ‘flower of the city’
& bodkin neer drinks but the ‘city’ goes round
Ah woe to our village sin she came for pillage
& stole the weak hearts of each thunder struck clown
Poor bodkins & brustles & ploughmen by hustles
Shes playd a sad game wi' our unlucky town
| The early poems of John Clare | |