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 THE SLOE FLOWER'S IN BLOOM |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
WHEN THE SLOE FLOWER'S IN BLOOM
When the sloe f[l]owers in bloom upon March's chill bosom
And the newly dropt lambkins lie chill on the plain
I think about Songs and I want to compose 'em
For sweet at the evening is my bonny Jane
Her bosom's as soft as the down O the thistle
Like the head O the red cap her red cheeks remain
A fig for your pearls and your jewels gae whistle
There's nothing but nature can equal my Jane
And the newly dropt lambkins lie chill on the plain
I think about Songs and I want to compose 'em
For sweet at the evening is my bonny Jane
Her bosom's as soft as the down O the thistle
Like the head O the red cap her red cheeks remain
A fig for your pearls and your jewels gae whistle
There's nothing but nature can equal my Jane
Her smiles are as rich as the hues O' her bosom
And that is as white as the mountain O snow
I want but the scrap of a Song to compose 'em
To make about Jenny and sing as I go
Down the vales and wood rideings a' blistered wi dew
Where the foxglove hangs pendant in ribbed hazle leaves
To speak O' her beauty and sing't a true
Loves song O' simplicity never deceives
And that is as white as the mountain O snow
I want but the scrap of a Song to compose 'em
To make about Jenny and sing as I go
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Where the foxglove hangs pendant in ribbed hazle leaves
To speak O' her beauty and sing't a true
Loves song O' simplicity never deceives
She's the pink O' carnations The dove O creation
Both artless and fair is the choice O' my ain
In beauty she's winning her heart's free frae sinning
I took her frae thousands to love her alane
The sparrow cheeps loud o'er her door i' the e'ening
While her apron she takes to the bee on the pane
To give him his freedom where queen stocks are leaning
There is naething sae luvley as my bonny Jane
Both artless and fair is the choice O' my ain
In beauty she's winning her heart's free frae sinning
I took her frae thousands to love her alane
The sparrow cheeps loud o'er her door i' the e'ening
While her apron she takes to the bee on the pane
To give him his freedom where queen stocks are leaning
There is naething sae luvley as my bonny Jane
| The later poems of John Clare | |