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 WINDS FAN SO SWEET |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
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THE WINDS FAN SO SWEET
Away with your lands o' the orange & myrtle
Wi' their skies ever clear where flowers ever bloom
I'll be a Scotch lassie and wear my ain kirtle
There slaves from all nations are buried in gloom
I'll be a Scotch lassie by mountain & burnie
And look to the lammies and milking at e'en
The suns of the Highlands neer blister or burn ye
Full free as the winds are her valleys so green
Wi' their skies ever clear where flowers ever bloom
I'll be a Scotch lassie and wear my ain kirtle
There slaves from all nations are buried in gloom
I'll be a Scotch lassie by mountain & burnie
And look to the lammies and milking at e'en
The suns of the Highlands neer blister or burn ye
Full free as the winds are her valleys so green
The winds fan so sweet o'er the valley's o' heather
The sun shines so bright oer the valleys o' broom
Sweet are the seasons and fair is the weather
That comes to our homes oer the mountains in bloom
The wee tipped daisies red yellow and blue
Dress the mountains in garlands the first o' the spring
They're the first o' wild blossoms to drink the spring dew
And close to the sides of the mountains they cling
The sun shines so bright oer the valleys o' broom
Sweet are the seasons and fair is the weather
That comes to our homes oer the mountains in bloom
The wee tipped daisies red yellow and blue
Dress the mountains in garlands the first o' the spring
They're the first o' wild blossoms to drink the spring dew
And close to the sides of the mountains they cling
Midway up the mountain I live with my granny
In a low little shieling thats cozey and dry
There's nothing comes sair to the bosom o' Fanny
While feeding her lammies or milking her kye
The dews o' the morn on her flowers o' broom
Are so like gouden beads I would take em to day
But theyre nothing but wet at the touch of my thumb
They slip from my touch and all melt away
In a low little shieling thats cozey and dry
There's nothing comes sair to the bosom o' Fanny
While feeding her lammies or milking her kye
The dews o' the morn on her flowers o' broom
Are so like gouden beads I would take em to day
But theyre nothing but wet at the touch of my thumb
They slip from my touch and all melt away
| The later poems of John Clare | |