The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
 | I. |
|
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| II. |
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
BALLAD
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
578
BALLAD
[Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose]
Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose
& her love might be reckond no less
But her bosom so freely bestows
That all may a portion posess
Her smiles woud be cheering to see
But so freely theyre lavishd abroad
That each silly swain well as me
Can boast of the smiles she bestowd
& her love might be reckond no less
But her bosom so freely bestows
That all may a portion posess
Her smiles woud be cheering to see
But so freely theyre lavishd abroad
That each silly swain well as me
Can boast of the smiles she bestowd
Her smiles and her kisses so free
Blesses all like the rain from the sky
As the blossoms love is to the bee
Each swain is as welcome as I
And tho I my folly can see
Yet still must I love and adore
Tho I know the love wisperd to me
Is a lye told to many before
Blesses all like the rain from the sky
As the blossoms love is to the bee
Each swain is as welcome as I
And tho I my folly can see
Yet still must I love and adore
Tho I know the love wisperd to me
Is a lye told to many before
Tis sad that a bosom so fair
And red lips so seemingly sweet
Shoud study false ways to ensnare
And breath in their kisses deceit
But beautys no guide to the best
The rose that out blushes the morn
While it tempts the glad eye to its breast
Will pierce the fond hand with a thorn
And red lips so seemingly sweet
Shoud study false ways to ensnare
And breath in their kisses deceit
579
The rose that out blushes the morn
While it tempts the glad eye to its breast
Will pierce the fond hand with a thorn
Yet still must I love silly swain
And put up with all her deciet
And try to be jealous in vain
For I cannot help thinking her sweet
When I see other swains in her bower
I sigh and excuse what I see
And say to my self ‘is the flower
‘Any worse when its kissd by the bee’.
And put up with all her deciet
And try to be jealous in vain
For I cannot help thinking her sweet
When I see other swains in her bower
I sigh and excuse what I see
And say to my self ‘is the flower
‘Any worse when its kissd by the bee’.
| The early poems of John Clare | |