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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PRETTY KATE KEARNEY |
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The later poems of John Clare | ||
PRETTY KATE KEARNEY
Kate Kearney is bonny the queen o' ould Erin
The gem o' the emerald Island so green
By the lake o Killarney the morn sun appearing
Is nothing more bright than the bonny young queen
She blooms like the morning
The mountains adorning
Sweet Kittys the gem o the mountain so green
The gem o' the emerald Island so green
By the lake o Killarney the morn sun appearing
Is nothing more bright than the bonny young queen
She blooms like the morning
The mountains adorning
Sweet Kittys the gem o the mountain so green
Oh Kitty's as fair as the rose wet wi e'ening
And sweet as the apple just pulled from the tree
While her beautiful head on her white hand is leaning
She's just the choice Angel to bother poor me
Her eyes diamond lustres
Her dark curls in clusters
Went nigh to the death and the finish o' me
And sweet as the apple just pulled from the tree
While her beautiful head on her white hand is leaning
She's just the choice Angel to bother poor me
Her eyes diamond lustres
Her dark curls in clusters
Went nigh to the death and the finish o' me
1040
I sat down and sigh'd by the lake o Killarney
When bonny Kate pass'd wi such life in her face
She turn'd round and laugh'd and called it a blarney
That a man should be sitting alane in that place
Sae I ventured to meet her
In love words to greet her
And sweet were the smiles that she left in my face
When bonny Kate pass'd wi such life in her face
She turn'd round and laugh'd and called it a blarney
That a man should be sitting alane in that place
Sae I ventured to meet her
In love words to greet her
And sweet were the smiles that she left in my face
I went on beside her the pretty Kate Kearney
And call'd her my hinney my darlint & dear
She says my young man are you bent on a journey
I muttered excuses and look'd rather queer
As she went on smiling
And look'd so beguiling
I spake bold and won her when no one was near
And call'd her my hinney my darlint & dear
She says my young man are you bent on a journey
I muttered excuses and look'd rather queer
As she went on smiling
And look'd so beguiling
I spake bold and won her when no one was near
The later poems of John Clare | ||