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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WILL YE GANG MARY |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
1006
WILL YE GANG MARY
And will ye gang Mary and never more see me
I' yer silks and yer satins and a' such fine gear
When I told ye the truth ye would not bele'e me
And truth wad na keep away a the lang year
For shame o' thee Mary to be so deceiving
The birds will [be] mocking o' a she pretends
Love's only plain truth or its no use believing
Love and Falsehood they ne'er cam together as friends
I' yer silks and yer satins and a' such fine gear
When I told ye the truth ye would not bele'e me
And truth wad na keep away a the lang year
For shame o' thee Mary to be so deceiving
The birds will [be] mocking o' a she pretends
Love's only plain truth or its no use believing
Love and Falsehood they ne'er cam together as friends
There's muckle o' gale over love becomes mangled
O sighs and o' tears sometimes faus as tis fair
Tis not the frail thing on a dandys arm dangled
That posesses one spark o' that blessing so rare
As the dew o' the morning in dripples o' pearl
As the velvet hued bloom of the sweet scented pea
My heart's beating love for that innocent girl
That wears both the name & resemblance o thee
O sighs and o' tears sometimes faus as tis fair
Tis not the frail thing on a dandys arm dangled
That posesses one spark o' that blessing so rare
As the dew o' the morning in dripples o' pearl
As the velvet hued bloom of the sweet scented pea
My heart's beating love for that innocent girl
That wears both the name & resemblance o thee
There's nothing like to it so tender and fair
In the dew o the morning or scent o' the flower
In the joy or the gloom o its love or despair
There's nought mistaen for it to this very hour
And will ye gang mary & never mair see me
Then nature maun perish afore my love dee
The wild rose bluims sweet in the hedges bele'e me
When you see its bluim Mary think upon me
In the dew o the morning or scent o' the flower
In the joy or the gloom o its love or despair
There's nought mistaen for it to this very hour
And will ye gang mary & never mair see me
Then nature maun perish afore my love dee
The wild rose bluims sweet in the hedges bele'e me
When you see its bluim Mary think upon me
| The later poems of John Clare | |