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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SWEET MARY O' THE PLOUGH |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
714
SWEET MARY O' THE PLOUGH
The latter end of Autumn
When the trees were turning yellow
When the garden flowers were dead and gone
And all the fruit were mellow
When ponds and rivers were cram'ful
Wi' sudden showers O' rain
I went to see my true love
O'er the dirty roads again
O'er moors and mosses Slups and sloughs
I went to see her many miles
The hips were scarlet awes were red
And beautiful were Mary's smiles
That lonely house beside the road
I can't imagine how
But I'm always sad when I pass bye
Sweet Mary O' the plough
When the trees were turning yellow
When the garden flowers were dead and gone
And all the fruit were mellow
When ponds and rivers were cram'ful
Wi' sudden showers O' rain
I went to see my true love
O'er the dirty roads again
O'er moors and mosses Slups and sloughs
I went to see her many miles
The hips were scarlet awes were red
And beautiful were Mary's smiles
That lonely house beside the road
I can't imagine how
But I'm always sad when I pass bye
Sweet Mary O' the plough
In early youth when love was sweet
So sweet no words can tell
I went far off a courting
A maiden I loved well
The woods were faded every where
And leaves began to drop
The Squirrels sputtering up the tree
And acorns from the top
Fell pattering on the dirty ground
And bursted from their cups
For which the school Boy running bye
Full very often stoops
Love urged me on my journey
Beneath each fadeing bough
That autumn morn I went to see
Sweet Mary of the Plough
So sweet no words can tell
I went far off a courting
A maiden I loved well
The woods were faded every where
And leaves began to drop
The Squirrels sputtering up the tree
And acorns from the top
Fell pattering on the dirty ground
And bursted from their cups
For which the school Boy running bye
Full very often stoops
Love urged me on my journey
715
That autumn morn I went to see
Sweet Mary of the Plough
The autumn it is pleasant
Though fadeing fast away
When the lover goes a courting
Upon an autumn day
The falling leaves they littered
Every bit o' greensward ground
And fell about my foot steps
Wi' many a pleasing sound
The old crows quawked for men had cut
Among the oak wood trees
While many coloured sort o' leaves
Came wailing on the breeze
The wind blew up the clouds
And I felt I knew not how
When I went to see my sweetheart
Sweet Mary of the Plough
Though fadeing fast away
When the lover goes a courting
Upon an autumn day
The falling leaves they littered
Every bit o' greensward ground
And fell about my foot steps
Wi' many a pleasing sound
The old crows quawked for men had cut
Among the oak wood trees
While many coloured sort o' leaves
Came wailing on the breeze
The wind blew up the clouds
And I felt I knew not how
When I went to see my sweetheart
Sweet Mary of the Plough
| The later poems of John Clare | |