From ‘The Rivals’

A Pastoral

Force puts no choice their own free will is best

What we urge earnest they but take in jest
One day while picking sprigs of hillock thyme
A little pismire in the flowers did climb
That to her bosom proved a rebel guest
& stung her as she placed it in her breast
Red pimples rose upon the snowy skin
& sighs bespoke the anguish it was in
But when she showed it me with blushing face
I bent with trembling heart & kissed the place
Urging the charm as cure for all her pain
She smiled as wishing to be kissed again

(lines 151 – 162)

The Shepherd's Calendar, with Village Stories, and Other Poems (1827)

(pismire = an ant)

By A Cottage Near A Wood (excerpt)

SONG

By A Cottage Near A Wood
Where The Small Birds Build & Sing
In My Dreaming Hours I've Stood
To Review The Lovely Spring
There Once Dwelt A Lovely Maiden
Whose Name I Sought In Vain
Some Called Her Lovely Lucey
& Others Honest Jane

Bye That Cottage Near A Wood
I Have Often Stood Alone
In A Sad Or Happy Mood
& Wished She Was My Own
The Small Birds Flitted Round Me
But Nature Pleased in Vain
For The Dark & Lovely Maiden
I Never Saw Again

Bye The Cottage Near The Wood
I Wished With Peace To Be
& The Blossoms Where She Stood
They Were More Then Gems To Me
More Fair Or Sweeter Blossoms
My Rambles Sought In Vain
& The Dark & Lovely Maiden
I Never Found Again

(lines 1-24)

Poems of John Clare's Madness

ed. Geoffrey Grigson (RKP, 1949)

Thrice Welcome to thy song sweet warbling thrush

(A sonnet)

Thrice Welcome to thy song sweet warbling thrush
May you be happy as you still have been
The present sunshine warms your covert bush
The future clouds you know not what they mean
Vain foolish thought & why should ye be sad
Why be like me with ills to come oprest
To pass the present bliss that may be had
& wait on sorrow as a welcome guest
No sing thou on & let me sorrow still
I cant be happy be it as it will
In vain the sun gleams thro the prison grate
To cheer the felon thats condemnd to dye
His soul in anguish mourns impending fate
Such pains are his & such a one am I

 

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

John Clare’s Journal (9^th May 1825) :

Wrote another portion of my Life & took a Walk to seek a Nightingales nest.  Found a Song thrush’s in bushy close by the side of a young oak with 4 eggs.  Never saw one of this kind in such a place before.

In Hilly Wood

How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs

Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs
But near an eye can find its way to see
The sun beams scarce molest me wi a smile
So thick the leafy armies gather round
& where they do the breeze blows cool the while
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground
—Full many a flower too wishing to be seen
Perks up its head the hiding grass between—
In midwood silence thus how sweet to be
Where all the noises that on peace intrude
Comes from the chittering cricket bird & bee
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude

The Village Minstrel, and Other Poems

(2 volumes, 1821)

From Clare's Journal (6th May 1825) :

Could not sleep all night got up at 3 o’dock in the morning & walked about the fields.  The birds were high in their songs in Royce Wood & almost deafening.  I heard the Cricket-bird* again in full cry in Royce Wood -- it is just like a childs 'screeker'.  Saw a Hawk-like bird that made an odd noise like one of the notes of the Nightingale, as if to decoy his prey into sight.

* The high, insect-like reeling song of the grasshopper warbler is the best clue to its presence. Even when you hear one it can be difficult to locate it due to the ventriloquial effect of its singing. If seen on migration it moves like a little mouse, creeping through the foliage. (RSPB)

BBC Countryfile

WELCOME to anyone who has landed here seeking information about John Clare following BBC's 'Countryfile' on the 5th May.

This weblog has been a labour of love for the past 9 years... you will find much to interest you in its pages.  AND you can comment/ask questions on every page.

The Chiff-Chaff

My transcription of Clare's ‘The Chippichap’, published and known ever since at 'The Chiff-Chaff'.  My transcription seeks to show every change Clare made to his work, including words crossed through.

My photograph of the actual manuscript is above.  Have a go at transcribing it yourself, this is very typical of the many manuscripts within the various archives.

See at yon restless flitting bird that flies
Above the oak tree tops at play,
Uttering its restless restless melodies
Of “chipichap” throughout the day.
Its nest is built in little bush
Scarcely a foot above the ground,
Or hid in clumps of sedge or rush
In woods where they are rarely found.

−

Its nest are is like an oven made
With moss and leaves and bits of grass,
& all so nice and snugly laid
That hands may spoil but not replace.

It enters by a little hole,
Its inside like a downy bed is a feather bed
From farm yards poultry hovels stole;
Its eggs are small and spotted red.

& all the spring & all the May,
If I forbore the gate to clap,
Down that wood riding day by day
I’ve heard it singing ‘chipichap,’

or seen it ever on the wing

like a fairy thing

above the trees tops dancing high by  [overwritten with ‘by’And o'er the tree-tops saw it fly,        [ originally transposed
Dancing about, a fairy thing,               [ with the line above
But never yet could come so nigh
To tell the colour of its wing.

                                                                             [reverse of page

The bushes they are wet or we dripping wet,

would turn  her and seek its nestOr we would seek its curious nest,
Theyre often in such bushy places met,
Where sedges mingle with the rest.

Pet MS A51 pp. 53 r & v

Opening of the Morning

[Image: Mike Hobson]

A Sketch

Tis the time just as morning is breaking
& the Colour arching blue skye
Just as the black clouds of the night are forsaking
Brightning up like as Marys blue eye

Where the red morns streaks was sweetly emerging
In the easts enlarging light
Just like the red corral beads of the Virgin
When hung on her neck so white
When the fresh springs of delight is beaming
& larks waken the labourers toils
When the first smile of the summer is gleaming
As sweet as when Mary smiles
Sweet when the dappeled sky is shrouded
In its milky water hue
Like as Mary her bosom's Clouded
Skin so white & veins so blue

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)