The early poems of John Clare :: :: University of Virginia Library

On sunday mornings freed from hard employ
How oft I mark the young mischevous boy
With anxious haste his poles & lines provide
For make shifts oft crookd pins to threadings ty'd
& delve his knife with wishes ever warm
In rotten dunghills for the grub & worm
The harmless treachery of his hooks to bait
Tracking the dewy grass wi many a mate
To seek the brook that down the meadows glide
Where the grey willow shadows by its side
Were flag & reed in wild disorder spread
& bending bulrush bows its taper head

643

& just above the surface of the floods
Where water lileys mount their snowy buds
On whose broad swimming leaves of glossy green
The shining dragon flye is often seen
& hanging thorns whose roots washd bare appear
That shields the morehens nest from year to year
While crowding osiers mingling wild among
Prove snug asylums to her brood when young
Who when suppris'd by foes approaching near
Plunge neath the weeping boughs & dissapear
There far from terrors that the parson brings
Or church bell hearing when the summons rings
Half hid in meadow sweet & kecks high flowers
In lonly sports they spend the sunday hours
Tho ill supplyd for fishing seems the brook
That breaks the weald in many a stinted crook
Oft choakd in weeds & foild to find a road
The choice retirement of the snake & toad
Then lost in shallows dimpling restlessly
In fluttering struggles murmuring to be free
Oer gravel stones its depth can scarcly hide
It runs the remnant of its broken tide
Till seemly weary of each choakd controul
It rests collected in some gulled hole
Scoopd by the sudden floods when winters snow
Melts in confusion by a hasty thaw
There bent in hopfull musings on the brink
They watch their floating corks that seldom sink
Save when a warey roach or silver bream
Nibbles the worm as passing up the stream

644

Just urging expectations hopes astray
To view the dodging cork then slink away
Still hopes keep burning with untird delight
Till wobbling curves keep waveing like a bite
If but the breezy wind their floats shoud spring
& move the water with a troubling ring
A captive fish still fills the anxious eyes
& willow wicks lie ready for the prize
Till evening gales awaken damp & chill
& nip the hopes that morning suns instill
When resting flyes have tired their gauzy wing
Nor longer tempt the watching fish to spring
Who at the worm nor nibbles more repeat
But lunge from night in sheltering flag retreat
Then dissapointed in their days employ
They seek amusment in a feebler joy
Short is the sigh for fancys provd untrue
With humbler hopes still pleasure they pursue
Where the rude oak bridge scales the narrow pass
Half hid in rustling reeds & scrambling grass
Or stepping stones stride oer the narrow sloughs
Which maidens daily cross to milk their cows
There they in artless glee for minnows run
& wade & dabble past the setting sun
Chasing the struttle oer the shallow tide
& flat stones turning up were gudgeons hide
Hopes visions with success here runneth high
& on a rush they string the little frye
All former hopes their ill success delayd
In this new change they fancy well repayd

645

& thus they wade & chatter oer their joys
Till night unlookd for young success destroys
Drives home the sons of solitude & streams
& stops uncloyd hopes ever freshning dreams
Who then like school boys that at truant play
In sloomy fear lounge on their homward way
& inly trembling as they gain the town
To meet chastisment from a parents frown
Where hazel twigs in readiness prepard
For their long abscence brings a mete reward