The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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[Steal my sweet bessy from racket & dancing] |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
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[Steal my sweet bessy from racket & dancing]
Steal my sweet bessy from racket & dancing
Sweet to thy taste tho the fiddle may be
If I may judge by thy bonny eye glancing
Love owns a charm woud be sweeter to thee
Bessey then shun thee the rustics intruding
Where for awhile by ourselves we may be
When the wild bower oer its silence is brooding
Steal from the rout love & wander wi me
Sweet to thy taste tho the fiddle may be
If I may judge by thy bonny eye glancing
Love owns a charm woud be sweeter to thee
Bessey then shun thee the rustics intruding
Where for awhile by ourselves we may be
When the wild bower oer its silence is brooding
Steal from the rout love & wander wi me
Bessy thy bosom like sweet summer weather
Swells wi a warmth of delight on my eye
Bessey the rose on thy cheeks fit to gether
Wander wi me love & dont ye deny
Ripe to perfection thy cherry lips glow love
Whose smiles tell their wishes as kissd they woud be
Thy eyes dart their sun beams & look so & so love
Then feign no compulsion to wander wi me
Swells wi a warmth of delight on my eye
Bessey the rose on thy cheeks fit to gether
Wander wi me love & dont ye deny
Ripe to perfection thy cherry lips glow love
Whose smiles tell their wishes as kissd they woud be
Thy eyes dart their sun beams & look so & so love
Then feign no compulsion to wander wi me
If in loves pleasures there lurks any harm love
Cursd be the joy that runs hazard of thine
All that I wish is a inn[o]scent charm love
To feast mid thy blushes on kisses divine
But rash rueful pleasures that hot love is meeting
When fears at the parting force tears from the eye
If wi such thoughts & false vows my hearts beating
Bessey er'ts broken wi thee, may I die.
Cursd be the joy that runs hazard of thine
All that I wish is a inn[o]scent charm love
To feast mid thy blushes on kisses divine
But rash rueful pleasures that hot love is meeting
When fears at the parting force tears from the eye
If wi such thoughts & false vows my hearts beating
Bessey er'ts broken wi thee, may I die.
| The early poems of John Clare | |