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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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
SONG
[She tied up her few things]
She tied up her few things
And laced up her shoe strings
And put on her bonnet worn through at the crown
Her apron tied tighter
Than snow her caps whiter
She lapt up her earnings and left our old town
And laced up her shoe strings
And put on her bonnet worn through at the crown
Her apron tied tighter
Than snow her caps whiter
She lapt up her earnings and left our old town
The Dog barked again
All the length o' his chain
And licked her hand kindly & huffed her good bye
Old hens prated loudly
The Cock strutted proudly
And the horse at the gate turned to let her go bye
All the length o' his chain
And licked her hand kindly & huffed her good bye
Old hens prated loudly
The Cock strutted proudly
And the horse at the gate turned to let her go bye
The Thrasher man stopping
The old barn floor wopping
Wished oer the door cloth her luck & no harm
Bees hummed round the thistle
While the red Robins whistle
And she just one look on the old mossy farm
The old barn floor wopping
Wished oer the door cloth her luck & no harm
Bees hummed round the thistle
While the red Robins whistle
And she just one look on the old mossy farm
899
Twas Michaelmas season
They'd got corn & peas in
And all the Fields cleared save some ru[c]kings & tythes
Cote pigeon flocks muster
Round beans shelling cluster
And done are the whettings o reap hooks & scythes
They'd got corn & peas in
And all the Fields cleared save some ru[c]kings & tythes
Cote pigeon flocks muster
Round beans shelling cluster
And done are the whettings o reap hooks & scythes
Next years flowers a springing
Will miss Jinneys singing
She opened her Bible & turned a leaf down
In her bosoms forewarnings
She lapt up her earnings
And ere the suns set 'll be in her own town
Will miss Jinneys singing
She opened her Bible & turned a leaf down
In her bosoms forewarnings
She lapt up her earnings
And ere the suns set 'll be in her own town
| The later poems of John Clare | |