The Cellar Door
By the old tavern door on the causey there layA hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray,And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a dropAs dry as the cinders that lay in his shop;And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun,Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun.He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and honeTill he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone;So ere he could work—though he'd lost the whole day—He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.
The cellar was empty, each barrel was drainedTo its dregs—and Sir John like a rebel remainedIn the street—for removal too powerful and largeFor two or three topers to take into charge.Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend,Had I strength I would just be for helping a friendTo walk on his legs: but a child in the streetHad as much power as he to put John on his feet.Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he,I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;
And my strength for your strength and bar your renownI'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown.And the cobbler he tuckt up his apron and spitIn his hands for a burster—but devil a bitWould he move—so as yet they made nothing of land;For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand.Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his veinI should just be as strong and as stubborn again.Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry:There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.
Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big.There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig.In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat;So let's go and wet all our whistles with that.Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chairIf I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there.And the blacksmith he threw off his apron and sworeSmall swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more:Let it out on the floor for the dry cock-a-roach—And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach
Sir John in his castle without leave or lawAnd suck out his blood with a reed or a strawEre he'd soak at the swipes—and he turned him to start,Till the host for high treason came down a full quart.Just then passed the dandy and turned up his nose:They'd fain have him shove, but he looked at his clothesAnd nipt his nose closer and twirled his stick roundAnd simpered, Tis nuisance to lie on the ground.But Bacchus, he laughed from the old tavern sign,Saying, Go on, thou shadow, and let the sun shine.
Then again they all tried, and the tinker he sworeThat the hogshead had grown twice as heavy or more.Nay nay, said the toper, and reeled as he spoke,We're all getting weak, that's the end of the joke.The ploughman came up and cut short his old tune,Hallooed "woi" to his horses and though it was JuneSaid he'd help them an hour ere he'd keep them adry;Well done, said the blacksmith with hopes running high;He moves, and, by jingo, success to the plough!Aye aye, said the cobbler, we'll conquer him now.
The hogshead rolled forward, the toper fell back,And the host laughed aloud as his sides they would crackTo see the old tinker's toil make such a gapIn his coat as to rend it from collar to flap.But the tinker he grumbled and cried Fiddle-dee!This garment hath been an old tenant with me;And a needle and thread with a little good skillWhen I've leisure will make it stand more weathers still.Then crack went his breeks from the hip to the kneeWith his thrusting—no matter; for nothing cared he.
So long as Sir John rolled along to the door,He's a chip of our block, said the blacksmith, and swore;And as sure as I live to drive nails in a shoeHe shall have at my cost a full pitcher or two.And the toper he hiccuped—which hindered an oath—So long as he'd credit, he'd pitcher them both.But the host stopt to hint when he'd ordered the draySir Barleycorn's order was purchase and pay.And now the old knight is imprisoned and ta'enTo waste in the tavern man's cellar again.
And now, said the blacksmith, let forfeits come firstFor the insult swipes offered, or his hoops I will burst.Here it is, my old hearties—Then drink your thirst full,Said the host, for the stingo is worth a strong pull.Never fear for your legs if they're broken to-day;Winds only blow straws, dust, and feathers away.But the cask that is full, like a giant he lies,And giants alone can his spirits capsize.If he lies in the path, though a king's coming bye,John Barleycorn's mighty and there he will lie.
Then the toper sat down with a hiccup and feltIf he'd still an odd coin in his pocket to melt,And he made a wry face, for his pocket was bare.—But he laughed and danced up, What, old boy, are you there?When he felt that a stiver had got to his kneeThrough a hole in his fob, and right happy was he.Says the tinker, I've brawled till no breath I have gotAnd not met with twopence to purchase a pot.Says the toper, I've powder to charge a long gun,And a stiver I've found when I thought I'd got none;
So helping a thirsty old friend in his needIs my duty—take heart, thou art welcome indeed.Then the smith with his tools in Sir John made a breach,And the toper he hiccuped and ended his speech;And pulled at the quart, till the snob he declaredWhen he went to drink next that the bottom was bared.No matter for that, said the toper, and grinned;I had but a soak and neer rested for wind.That's the law, said the smith, with a look rather vexed,But the quart was a forfeit; so pay for the next.
Thus they talked of their skill and their labour till noonWhen the sober man's toil was exactly half done,And there the plough lay—people hardly could passAnd the horses let loose polished up the short grassAnd browsed on the bottle of flags lying there,By the gipsey's old budget, for mending a chair.The miller's horse tied to the old smithy doorStood stamping his feet, by the flies bitten sore,Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe;And he stampt till another fell off and made two:
Till the miller, expecting that all would get loose,Went to seek him and cursed him outright for a goose;But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twiceAnd forgot all his passion and toil in a trice.And the flybitten horse at the old smithy postMight stamp till his shoes and his legs they were lost.He sung his old songs and forgot his old mill—Blow winds high or low, she might rest her at will.And the cobbler, in spite of his bustle for pelf,Left the shop all the day to take care of itself.
And the toper who carried his house on his head,No wife to be teazing, no bairns to be fed,Would sit out the week or the month or the yearOr a life-time so long as he'd credit for beer.The ploughman he talked of his skill as divine,How he could plough thurrows as straight as a line;And the blacksmith he swore, had he but the command,He could shoe the king's hunter the best in the land;And the cobbler declared, was his skill but once seen,He should soon get an order for shoes from the queen.
But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three,For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he,And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a stormAnd make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm.The toper said nothing but wished the quart fullAnd swore he could toss it all off at a pull.Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away,When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay.And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weatherThey drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.
The sun he went down—the last gleam from his browFlung a smile of repose on the holiday plough;The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rainFell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel maneOf the horse that the miller had brought to be shod,And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd—For a bit of the halter still hung at the door,Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor;And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather,While all kept on singing and drinking together.
The Flitting
I've left my own old home of homes,Green fields and every pleasant place;The summer like a stranger comes,I pause and hardly know her face.I miss the hazel's happy green,The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms,Where envy's sneer was never seen,Where staring malice never comes.
I miss the heath, its yellow furze,Molehills and rabbit tracks that leadThrough beesom, ling, and teazel burrsThat spread a wilderness indeed;The woodland oaks and all belowThat their white powdered branches shield,The mossy paths: the very crowCroaks music in my native field.
I sit me in my corner chairThat seems to feel itself from home,And hear bird music here and thereFrom hawthorn hedge and orchard come;I hear, but all is strange and new:I sat on my old bench in June,The sailing puddock's shrill "peelew"On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.
I walk adown the narrow lane,The nightingale is singing now,But like to me she seems at lossFor Royce Wood and its shielding bough.I lean upon the window sill,The trees and summer happy seem;Green, sunny green they shine, but stillMy heart goes far away to dream.
Of happiness, and thoughts ariseWith home-bred pictures many a one,Green lanes that shut out burning skiesAnd old crooked stiles to rest upon;Above them hangs the maple tree,Below grass swells a velvet hill,And little footpaths sweet to seeGo seeking sweeter places still,
With bye and bye a brook to crossOer which a little arch is thrown:No brook is here, I feel the lossFrom home and friends and all alone.—The stone pit with its shelvy sidesSeemed hanging rocks in my esteem;I miss the prospect far and wideFrom Langley Bush, and so I seem
Alone and in a stranger scene,Far, far from spots my heart esteems,The closen with their ancient green,Heaths, woods, and pastures, sunny streams.The hawthorns here were hung with may,But still they seem in deader green,The sun een seems to lose its wayNor knows the quarter it is in.
I dwell in trifles like a child,I feel as ill becomes a man,And still my thoughts like weedlings wildGrow up to blossom where they can.They turn to places known so longI feel that joy was dwelling there,So home-fed pleasure fills the songThat has no present joys to hear.
I read in books for happiness,But books are like the sea to joy,They change—as well give age the glassTo hunt its visage when a boy.For books they follow fashions newAnd throw all old esteems away,In crowded streets flowers never grew,But many there hath died away.
Some sing the pomps of chivalryAs legends of the ancient time,Where gold and pearls and mysteryAre shadows painted for sublime;But passions of sublimityBelong to plain and simpler things,And David underneath a treeSought when a shepherd Salem's springs,
Where moss did into cushions spring,Forming a seat of velvet hue,A small unnoticed trifling thingTo all but heaven's hailing dew.And David's crown hath passed away,Yet poesy breathes his shepherd-skill,His palace lost—and to this dayThe little moss is blossoming still.
Strange scenes mere shadows are to me,Vague impersonifying things;I love with my old haunts to beBy quiet woods and gravel springs,Where little pebbles wear as smoothAs hermits' beads by gentle floods,Whose noises do my spirits sootheAnd warm them into singing moods.
Here every tree is strange to me,All foreign things where eer I go,There's none where boyhood made a sweeOr clambered up to rob a crow.No hollow tree or woodland bowerWell known when joy was beating high,Where beauty ran to shun a showerAnd love took pains to keep her dry,
And laid the sheaf upon the groundTo keep her from the dripping grass,And ran for stocks and set them roundTill scarce a drop of rain could passThrough; where the maidens they reclinedAnd sung sweet ballads now forgot,Which brought sweet memories to the mind,But here no memory knows them not.
There have I sat by many a treeAnd leaned oer many a rural stile,And conned my thoughts as joys to me,Nought heeding who might frown or smile.Twas nature's beauty that inspiredMy heart with rapture not its own,And she's a fame that never tires;How could I feel myself alone?
No, pasture molehills used to lieAnd talk to me of sunny days,And then the glad sheep resting byeAll still in ruminating praiseOf summer and the pleasant placeAnd every weed and blossom tooWas looking upward in my faceWith friendship's welcome "how do ye do?"
All tenants of an ancient placeAnd heirs of noble heritage,Coeval they with Adam's raceAnd blest with more substantial age.For when the world first saw the sunThese little flowers beheld him too,And when his love for earth begunThey were the first his smiles to woo.
There little lambtoe bunches springsIn red tinged and begolden dyeFor ever, and like China kingsThey come but never seem to die.There may-bloom with its little threadsStill comes upon the thorny bowersAnd neer forgets those prickly headsLike fairy pins amid the flowers.
And still they bloom as on the dayThey first crowned wilderness and rock,When Abel haply wreathed with mayThe firstlings of his little flock,And Eve might from the matted thornTo deck her lone and lovely browReach that same rose that heedless scornMisnames as the dog rosey now.
Give me no high-flown fangled things,No haughty pomp in marching chime,Where muses play on golden stringsAnd splendour passes for sublime,Where cities stretch as far as fameAnd fancy's straining eye can go,And piled until the sky for shameIs stooping far away below.
I love the verse that mild and blandBreathes of green fields and open sky,I love the muse that in her handBears flowers of native poesy;Who walks nor skips the pasture brookIn scorn, but by the drinking horseLeans oer its little brig to lookHow far the sallows lean across,
And feels a rapture in her breastUpon their root-fringed grains to markA hermit morehen's sedgy nestJust like a naiad's summer bark.She counts the eggs she cannot reachAdmires the spot and loves it well,And yearns, so nature's lessons teach,Amid such neighbourhoods to dwell.
I love the muse who sits her downUpon the molehill's little lap,Who feels no fear to stain her gownAnd pauses by the hedgerow gap;Not with that affectation, praiseOf song, to sing and never seeA field flower grown in all her daysOr een a forest's aged tree.
Een here my simple feelings nurseA love for every simple weed,And een this little shepherd's purseGrieves me to cut it up; indeedI feel at times a love and joyFor every weed and every thing,A feeling kindred from a boy,A feeling brought with every Spring.
And why? this shepherd's purse that growsIn this strange spot, in days gone byeGrew in the little garden rowsOf my old home now left; and IFeel what I never felt before,This weed an ancient neighbour here,And though I own the spot no moreIts every trifle makes it dear.
The ivy at the parlour end,The woodbine at the garden gate,Are all and each affection's friendThat render parting desolate.But times will change and friends must partAnd nature still can make amends;Their memory lingers round the heartLike life whose essence is its friends.
Time looks on pomp with vengeful moodOr killing apathy's disdain;So where old marble cities stoodPoor persecuted weeds remain.She feels a love for little thingsThat very few can feel beside,And still the grass eternal springsWhere castles stood and grandeur died.
Remembrances
Summer's pleasures they are gone like to visions every one,And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on.I tried to call them back, but unbidden they are goneFar away from heart and eye and forever far away.Dear heart, and can it be that such raptures meet decay?I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay,I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and playOn its bank at "clink and bandy," "chock" and "taw" and "ducking stone,"Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her ownLike a ruin of the past all alone.
When I used to lie and sing by old Eastwell's boiling spring,When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a swing,And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a thing,With heart just like a feather, now as heavy as a stone;When beneath old Lea Close oak I the bottom branches brokeTo make our harvest cart like so many working folk,And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak.O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting,Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to wing,Leaving nothing but a little naked spring.
When jumping time away on old Crossberry Way,And eating awes like sugarplums ere they had lost the may,And skipping like a leveret before the peep of dayOn the roly poly up and downs of pleasant Swordy Well,When in Round Oak's narrow lane as the south got black againWe sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain,With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain;How delicious was the dinner time on such a showery day!O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away,The ancient pulpit trees and the play.
When for school oer Little Field with its brook and wooden brig,Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big,While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig,And drove my team along made of nothing but a name,"Gee hep" and "hoit" and "woi"—O I never call to mindThese pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind,While I see little mouldiwarps hang sweeing to the windOn the only aged willow that in all the field remains,And nature hides her face while they're sweeing in their chainsAnd in a silent murmuring complains.
Here was commons for their hills, where they seek for freedom still,Though every common's gone and though traps are set to killThe little homeless miners—O it turns my bosom chillWhen I think of old Sneap Green, Puddock's Nook and Hilly Snow,Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dewAnd the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view,Where we threw the pismire crumbs when we'd nothing else to do,All levelled like a desert by the never weary plough,All banished like the sun where that cloud is passing nowAnd settled here for ever on its brow.
O I never thought that joys would run away from boys,Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such summer joys;But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toysTo petrify first feelings like the fable into stone,Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last,Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcastAnd boyhood's pleasing haunt like a blossom in the blastWas shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and done,Till vanished was the morning spring and set the summer sunAnd winter fought her battle strife and won.
By Langley Bush I roam, but the bush hath left its hill,On Cowper Green I stray, tis a desert strange and chill,And the spreading Lea Close oak, ere decay had penned its will,To the axe of the spoiler and self-interest fell a prey,And Crossberry Way and old Round Oak's narrow laneWith its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again,Enclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain,It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hillAnd hung the moles for traitors—though the brook is running stillIt runs a sicker brook, cold and chill.
O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men,I had watched her night and day, be sure, and never slept agen,And when she turned to go, O I'd caught her mantle then,And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay;Ay, knelt and worshipped on, as love in beauty's bower,And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon a flower,And gave her heart my posies, all cropt in a sunny hour,As keepsakes and pledges all to never fade away;But love never heeded to treasure up the may,So it went the common road to decay.
The Cottager
True as the church clock hand the hour pursuesHe plods about his toils and reads the news,And at the blacksmith's shop his hour will standTo talk of "Lunun" as a foreign land.For from his cottage door in peace or strifeHe neer went fifty miles in all his life.His knowledge with old notions still combinedIs twenty years behind the march of mind.He views new knowledge with suspicious eyesAnd thinks it blasphemy to be so wise.On steam's almighty tales he wondering looksAs witchcraft gleaned from old blackletter books.Life gave him comfort but denied him wealth,He toils in quiet and enjoys his health,He smokes a pipe at night and drinks his beerAnd runs no scores on tavern screens to clear.He goes to market all the year aboutAnd keeps one hour and never stays it out.Een at St. Thomas tide old Rover's barkHails Dapple's trot an hour before it's dark.He is a simple-worded plain old manWhose good intents take errors in their plan.Oft sentimental and with saddened veinHe looks on trifles and bemoans their pain,And thinks the angler mad, and loudly stormsWith emphasis of speech oer murdered worms.And hunters cruel—pleading with sad carePity's petition for the fox and hare,Yet feels self-satisfaction in his woesFor war's crushed myriads of his slaughtered foes.He is right scrupulous in one pretextAnd wholesale errors swallows in the next.He deems it sin to sing, yet not to sayA song—a mighty difference in his way.And many a moving tale in antique rhymesHe has for Christmas and such merry times,When "Chevy Chase," his masterpiece of song,Is said so earnest none can think it long.Twas the old vicar's way who should be right,For the late vicar was his heart's delight,And while at church he often shakes his headTo think what sermons the old vicar made,Downright and orthodox that all the landWho had their ears to hear might understand,But now such mighty learning meets his earsHe thinks it Greek or Latin which he hears,Yet church receives him every sabbath dayAnd rain or snow he never keeps away.All words of reverence still his heart reveres,Low bows his head when Jesus meets his ears,And still he thinks it blasphemy as wellSuch names without a capital to spell.In an old corner cupboard by the wallHis books are laid, though good, in number small,His Bible first in place; from worth and ageWhose grandsire's name adorns the title page,And blank leaves once, now filled with kindred claims,Display a world's epitome of names.Parents and children and grandchildren allMemory's affections in the lists recall.And prayer-book next, much worn though strongly bound,Proves him a churchman orthodox and sound.The "Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Death of Abel"Are seldom missing from his Sunday table,And prime old Tusser in his homely trim,The first of bards in all the world with him,And only poet which his leisure knows;Verse deals in fancy, so he sticks to prose.These are the books he reads and reads againAnd weekly hunts the almanacks for rain.Here and no further learning's channels ran;Still, neighbours prize him as the learned man.His cottage is a humble place of restWith one spare room to welcome every guest,And that tall poplar pointing to the skyHis own hand planted when an idle boy,It shades his chimney while the singing windHums songs of shelter to his happy mind.Within his cot the largest ears of cornHe ever found his picture frames adorn:Brave Granby's head, De Grosse's grand defeat;He rubs his hands and shows how Rodney beat.And from the rafters upon strings dependBeanstalks beset with pods from end to end,Whose numbers without counting may be seenWrote on the almanack behind the screen.Around the corner up on worsted strungPooties in wreaths above the cupboard hung.Memory at trifling incidents awakesAnd there he keeps them for his children's sakes,Who when as boys searched every sedgy lane,Traced every wood and shattered clothes again,Roaming about on rapture's easy wingTo hunt those very pooty shells in spring.And thus he lives too happy to be poorWhile strife neer pauses at so mean a door.Low in the sheltered valley stands his cot,He hears the mountain storm and feels it not;Winter and spring, toil ceasing ere tis dark,Rests with the lamb and rises with the lark,Content his helpmate to the day's employAnd care neer comes to steal a single joy.Time, scarcely noticed, turns his hair to grey,Yet leaves him happy as a child at play.
Insects
These tiny loiterers on the barley's beard,And happy units of a numerous herdOf playfellows, the laughing Summer brings,Mocking the sunshine in their glittering wings,How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!No kin they bear to labour's drudgery,Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose;And where they fly for dinner no one knows—The dew-drops feed them not—they love the shineOf noon, whose sun may bring them golden wine.All day they're playing in their Sunday dress—Till night goes sleep, and they can do no less;Then, to the heath bell's silken hood they fly,And like to princes in their slumbers lie,Secure from night, and dropping dews, and all,In silken beds and roomy painted hall.So merrily they spend their summer day,Now in the cornfields, now the new-mown hay.One almost fancies that such happy things,With coloured hoods and richly burnished wings,Are fairy folk, in splendid masqueradeDisguised, as if of mortal folk afraid,Keeping their merry pranks a mystery still,Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.
Sudden Shower
Black grows the southern sky, betokening rain,And humming hive-bees homeward hurry bye:They feel the change; so let us shun the grain,And take the broad road while our feet are dry.Ay, there some dropples moistened on my face,And pattered on my hat—tis coming nigh!Let's look about, and find a sheltering place.The little things around, like you and I,Are hurrying through the grass to shun the shower.Here stoops an ash-tree—hark! the wind gets high,But never mind; this ivy, for an hour,Rain as it may, will keep us dryly here:That little wren knows well his sheltering bower,Nor leaves his dry house though we come so near.
Evening Primrose
When once the sun sinks in the west,And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast;Almost as pale as moonbeams are,Or its companionable star,The evening primrose opes anewIts delicate blossoms to the dew;And, shunning-hermit of the light,Wastes its fair bloom upon the night;Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,Knows not the beauty he possesses.Thus it blooms on till night is byeAnd day looks out with open eye,Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun,It faints and withers, and is done.
The Shepherd's Tree
Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred,Like to a warrior's destiny! I loveTo stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,And hear the laugh of summer leaves above;Or on thy buttressed roots to sit, and leanIn careless attitude, and there reflectOn times, and deeds, and darings that have been—Old castaways, now swallowed in neglect;While thou art towering in thy strength of heart,Stirring the soul to vain imaginings,In which life's sordid being hath no part.The wind of that eternal ditty sings,Humming of future things, that burn the mindTo leave some fragment of itself behind.
Wild Bees
These children of the sun which summer bringsAs pastoral minstrels in her merry trainPipe rustic ballads upon busy wingsAnd glad the cotters' quiet toils again.The white-nosed bee that bores its little holeIn mortared walls and pipes its symphonies,And never absent couzen, black as coal,That Indian-like bepaints its little thighs,With white and red bedight for holiday,Right earlily a-morn do pipe and playAnd with their legs stroke slumber from their eyes.And aye so fond they of their singing seemThat in their holes abed at close of dayThey still keep piping in their honey dreams,And larger ones that thrum on ruder pipeRound the sweet smelling closen and rich woodsWhere tawny white and red flush clover budsShine bonnily and bean fields blossom ripe,Shed dainty perfumes and give honey foodTo these sweet poets of the summer fields;Me much delighting as I stroll alongThe narrow path that hay laid meadow yields,Catching the windings of their wandering song.The black and yellow bumble first on wingTo buzz among the sallow's early flowers,Hiding its nest in holes from fickle springWho stints his rambles with her frequent showers;And one that may for wiser piper pass,In livery dress half sables and half red,Who laps a moss ball in the meadow grassAnd hoards her stores when April showers have fled;And russet commoner who knows the faceOf every blossom that the meadow brings,Starting the traveller to a quicker paceBy threatening round his head in many rings:These sweeten summer in their happy gleeBy giving for her honey melody.
The Firetail's Nest
"Tweet" pipes the robin as the cat creeps byHer nestling young that in the elderns lie,And then the bluecap tootles in its glee,Picking the flies from orchard apple tree,And "pink" the chaffinch cries its well-known strain,Urging its kind to utter "pink" again,While in a quiet mood hedgesparrows tryAn inward stir of shadowed melody.Around the rotten tree the firetail mournsAs the old hedger to his toil returns,Chopping the grain to stop the gap close byThe hole where her blue eggs in safety lie.Of everything that stirs she dreameth wrongAnd pipes her "tweet tut" fears the whole day long.
The Fear of Flowers
The nodding oxeye bends before the wind,The woodbine quakes lest boys their flowers should find,And prickly dogrose spite of its arrayCan't dare the blossom-seeking hand away,While thistles wear their heavy knobs of bloomProud as a warhorse wears its haughty plume,And by the roadside danger's self defy;On commons where pined sheep and oxen lieIn ruddy pomp and ever thronging moodIt stands and spreads like danger in a wood,And in the village street where meanest weedsCan't stand untouched to fill their husks with seeds,The haughty thistle oer all danger towers,In every place the very wasp of flowers.
Summer Evening
The frog half fearful jumps across the path,And little mouse that leaves its hole at eveNimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,Till past,—and then the cricket sings more strong,And grasshoppers in merry moods still wearThe short night weary with their fretting song.Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bankThe yellowhammer flutters in short fearsFrom off its nest hid in the grasses rank,And drops again when no more noise it hears.Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
Emmonsail's Heath in Winter
I love to see the old heath's withered brakeMingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,While the old heron from the lonely lakeStarts slow and flaps his melancholy wing,And oddling crow in idle motions swingOn the half rotten ashtree's topmost twig,Beside whose trunk the gipsy makes his bed.Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brigWhere a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread,The fieldfares chatter in the whistling thornAnd for the awe round fields and closen rove,And coy bumbarrels twenty in a droveFlit down the hedgerows in the frozen plainAnd hang on little twigs and start again.
Pleasures of Fancy
A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,And through this little gate that claps and bangsAgainst thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangsOer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughsThat's slept half an eternity; in fearThe herdsman may have left his startled cowsFor shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;Here too the woodman on his wallet laidFor pillow may have slept an hour away;And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,Here sat and mused half some long summer dayWhile some old shepherd listened to the lay.
To Napoleon
The heroes of the present and the pastWere puny, vague, and nothingness to thee:Thou didst a span grasp mighty to the last,And strain for glory when thy die was cast.That little island, on the Atlantic sea,Was but a dust-spot in a lake: thy mindSwept space as shoreless as eternity.Thy giant powers outstript this gaudy ageOf heroes; and, as looking at the sun,So gazing on thy greatness, made men blindTo merits, that had adoration wonIn olden times. The world was on thy pageOf victories but a comma. Fame could findNo parallel, thy greatness to presage.
The Skylark
Above the russet clods the corn is seenSprouting its spiry points of tender green,Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake,Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break.Opening their golden caskets to the sun,The buttercups make schoolboys eager run,To see who shall be first to pluck the prize—Up from their hurry see the Skylark flies,And oer her half-formed nest, with happy wings,Winnows the air till in the cloud she sings,Then hangs a dust spot in the sunny skies,And drops and drops till in her nest she lies,Which they unheeded passed—not dreaming thenThat birds, which flew so high, would drop againTo nests upon the ground, which anythingMay come at to destroy. Had they the wingLike such a bird, themselves would be too proudAnd build on nothing but a passing cloud!As free from danger as the heavens are freeFrom pain and toil, there would they build and be,And sail about the world to scenes unheardOf and unseen,—O were they but a bird!So think they, while they listen to its song,And smile and fancy and so pass along;While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn,Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.
The Flood
Waves trough, rebound, and furious boil again,Like plunging monsters rising underneath,Who at the top curl up a shaggy mane,A moment catching at a surer breath,Then plunging headlong down and down, and onEach following whirls the shadow of the last;And other monsters rise when those are gone,Crest their fringed waves, plunge onward and are past.The chill air comes around me oceanly,From bank to bank the waterstrife is spread;Strange birds like snowspots oer the whizzing seaHang where the wild duck hurried past and fled.On roars the flood, all restless to be free,Like Trouble wandering to Eternity.
The Thrush's Nest
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,That overhung a molehill large and round,I heard from morn to morn a merry thrushSing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the soundWith joy; and, often an intruding guest,I watched her secret toils from day to day—How true she warped the moss, to form a nest,And modelled it within with wood and clay;And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,Ink-spotted-over shells of greeny blue;And there I witnessed in the sunny hoursA brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.
November
Sybil of months, and worshipper of winds,I love thee, rude and boisterous as thou art;And scraps of joy my wandering ever findsMid thy uproarious madness—when the startOf sudden tempests stirs the forest leavesInto hoarse fury, till the shower set freeStills the huge swells. Then ebb the mighty heaves,That sway the forest like a troubled sea.I love thy wizard noise, and rave in turnHalf-vacant thoughts and rhymes of careless form;Then hide me from the shower, a short sojourn,Neath ivied oak; and mutter to the storm,Wishing its melody belonged to me,That I might breathe a living song to thee.
Earth's Eternity
Man, Earth's poor shadow! talks of Earth's decay:But hath it nothing of eternal kin?No majesty that shall not pass away?No soul of greatness springing up within?Thought marks without hoar shadows of sublime,Pictures of power, which if not doomed to winEternity, stand laughing at old TimeFor ages: in the grand ancestral lineOf things eternal, mounting to divine,I read Magnificence where ages payWorship like conquered foes to the Apennine,Because they could not conquer. There sits DayToo high for Night to come at—mountains shine,Outpeering Time, too lofty for decay.
Autumn
Autumn comes laden with her ripened loadOf fruitage and so scatters them abroadThat each fern-smothered heath and mole-hill wasteAre black with bramble berries—where in hasteThe chubby urchins from the village hieTo feast them there, stained with the purple dye;While painted woods around my rambles beIn draperies worthy of eternity.Yet will the leaves soon patter on the ground,And death's deaf voice awake at every sound:One drops—then others—and the last that fellRings for those left behind their passing bell.Thus memory every where her tidings bringsHow sad death robs us of life's dearest things.
Signs of Winter
The cat runs races with her tail. The dogLeaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass.The swine run round and grunt and play with straw,Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack.Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crowUnceremonious visit pays and croaks,Then swops away. From mossy barn the owlBobs hasty out—wheels round and, scared as soon,As hastily retires. The ducks grow wildAnd from the muddy pond fly up and wheelA circle round the village and soon, tired,Plunge in the pond again. The maids in hasteSnatch from the orchard hedge the mizzled clothesAnd laughing hurry in to keep them dry.
Nightwind
Darkness like midnight from the sobbing woodsClamours with dismal tidings of the rain,Roaring as rivers breaking loose in floodsTo spread and foam and deluge all the plain.The cotter listens at his door again,Half doubting whether it be floods or wind,And through the thickening darkness looks afraid,Thinking of roads that travel has to findThrough night's black depths in danger's garb arrayed.And the loud glabber round the flaze soon stopsWhen hushed to silence by the lifted handOf fearing dame who hears the noise in dreadAnd thinks a deluge comes to drown the land;Nor dares she go to bed until the tempest drops.
NOTE.—The remaining poems in this section are taken from a series, numbering several hundred brief pieces, written by Clare in the winter of 1835-6. Perhaps it is unjust to Clare to consider them out of their environment; it would be more unjust not to represent this phase of his poetry.
Birds in Alarm
The firetail tells the boys when nests are nighAnd tweets and flies from every passer-bye.The yellowhammer never makes a noiseBut flies in silence from the noisy boys;The boys will come and take them every day,And still she lays as none were ta'en away.
The nightingale keeps tweeting-churring roundBut leaves in silence when the nest is found.The pewit hollos "chewrit" as she fliesAnd flops about the shepherd where he lies;But when her nest is found she stops her songAnd cocks [her] coppled crown and runs along.Wrens cock their tails and chitter loud and play,And robins hollo "tut" and fly away.
Dyke Side
The frog croaks loud, and maidens dare not passBut fear the noisome toad and shun the grass;And on the sunny banks they dare not goWhere hissing snakes run to the flood below.The nuthatch noises loud in wood and wild,Like women turning skreeking to a child.The schoolboy hears and brushes through the treesAnd runs about till drabbled to the knees.The old hawk winnows round the old crow's nest;The schoolboy hears and wonder fills his breast.He throws his basket down to climb the treeAnd wonders what the red blotched eggs can be:The green woodpecker bounces from the viewAnd hollos as he buzzes bye "kew kew."
Badger
When midnight comes a host of dogs and menGo out and track the badger to his den,And put a sack within the hole, and lieTill the old grunting badger passes bye.He comes and hears—they let the strongest loose.The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose.The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,And the old hare half wounded buzzes bye.They get a forked stick to bear him downAnd clap the dogs and take him to the town,And bait him all the day with many dogs,And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.He runs along and bites at all he meets:They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproarAnd drives the rebels to their very door.The frequent stone is hurled where eer they go;When badgers fight, then every one's a foe.The dogs are clapt and urged to join the fray;The badger turns and drives them all away.Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,He fights with dogs for bones and beats them all.The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,The badger grins and never leaves his hold.He drives the crowd and follows at their heelsAnd bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels.
The frighted women take the boys away,The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.He tries to reach the woods, an awkward race,But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chace.He turns agen and drives the noisy crowdAnd beats the many dogs in noises loud.He drives away and beats them every one,And then they loose them all and set them on.He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,Then starts and grins and drives the crowd agen;Till kicked and torn and beaten out he liesAnd leaves his hold and cackles, groans, and dies.
The Fox
The shepherd on his journey heard when nighHis dog among the bushes barking high;The ploughman ran and gave a hearty shout,He found a weary fox and beat him out.The ploughman laughed and would have ploughed him inBut the old shepherd took him for the skin.He lay upon the furrow stretched for dead,The old dog lay and licked the wounds that bled,The ploughman beat him till his ribs would crack,And then the shepherd slung him at his back;And when he rested, to his dog's surprise,The old fox started from his dead disguise;And while the dog lay panting in the sedgeHe up and snapt and bolted through the hedge.
He scampered to the bushes far away;The shepherd called the ploughman to the fray;The ploughman wished he had a gun to shoot.The old dog barked and followed the pursuit.The shepherd threw his hook and tottered past;The ploughman ran but none could go so fast;The woodman threw his faggot from the wayAnd ceased to chop and wondered at the fray.But when he saw the dog and heard the cryHe threw his hatchet—but the fox was bye.The shepherd broke his hook and lost the skin;He found a badger hole and bolted in.They tried to dig, but, safe from danger's way,He lived to chase the hounds another day.
The Vixen
Among the taller wood with ivy hung,The old fox plays and dances round her young.She snuffs and barks if any passes byeAnd swings her tail and turns prepared to fly.The horseman hurries bye, she bolts to see,And turns agen, from danger never free.If any stands she runs among the polesAnd barks and snaps and drives them in the holes.The shepherd sees them and the boy goes byeAnd gets a stick and progs the hole to try.They get all still and lie in safety sureAnd out again when every thing's secureAnd start and snap at blackbirds bouncing byeTo fight and catch the great white butterfly.
Turkeys
The turkeys wade the close to catch the beesIn the old border full of maple treesAnd often lay away and breed and comeAnd bring a brood of chelping chickens home.The turkey gobbles loud and drops his ragAnd struts and sprunts his tail and then lets dragHis wing on ground and makes a huzzing noise,Nauntles at passer-bye and drives the boysAnd bounces up and flies at passer-bye.The old dog snaps and grins nor ventures nigh.He gobbles loud and drives the boys from play;They throw their sticks and kick and run away.
The Poet's Death
The world is taking little heedAnd plods from day to day:The vulgar flourish like a weed,The learned pass away.
We miss him on the summer pathThe lonely summer day,Where mowers cut the pleasant swathAnd maidens make the hay.
The vulgar take but little heed;The garden wants his care;There lies the book he used to read,There stands the empty chair.
The boat laid up, the voyage oer,And passed the stormy wave,The world is going as before,The poet in his grave.
The Beautiful Stranger
I cannot know what country owns thee now,With France's forest lilies on thy brow.When England knew thee thou wert passing fair;I never knew a foreign face so rare.The world of waters rolls and rushes bye,Nor lets me wander where thy vallies lie.But surely France must be a pleasant placeThat greets the stranger with so fair a face;The English maiden blushes down the dance,But few can equal the fair maid of France.I saw thee lovely and I wished thee mine,And the last song I ever wrote is thine.
Thy country's honour on thy face attends;Men may be foes but beauty makes us friends.
The Tramp
He eats (a moment's stoppage to his song)The stolen turnip as he goes along;And hops along and heeds with careless eyeThe passing crowded stage coach reeling bye.He talks to none but wends his silent way,And finds a hovel at the close of day,Or under any hedge his house is made.He has no calling and he owns no trade.An old smoaked blanket arches oer his head,A whisp of straw or stubble makes his bed.He knows a lawless law that claims no kinBut meet and plunder on and feel no sin—No matter where they go or where they dwellThey dally with the winds and laugh at hell.
Farmer's Boy
He waits all day beside his little flockAnd asks the passing stranger what's o'clock,But those who often pass his daily tasksLook at their watch and tell before he asks.He mutters stories to himself and liesWhere the thick hedge the warmest house supplies,And when he hears the hunters far and wideHe climbs the highest tree to see them ride—He climbs till all the fields are blea and bareAnd makes the old crow's nest an easy chair.And soon his sheep are got in other grounds—He hastens down and fears his master come,He stops the gap and keeps them all in boundsAnd tends them closely till it's time for home.
Braggart
With careful step to keep his balance upHe reels on warily along the street,Slabbering at mouth and with a staggering stoopMutters an angry look at all he meets.Bumptious and vain and proud he shoulders upAnd would be something if he knew but how;To any man on earth he will not stoopBut cracks of work, of horses and of plough.Proud of the foolish talk, the ale he quaffs,He never heeds the insult loud that laughs:With rosy maid he tries to joke and play,—Who shrugs and nettles deep his pomp and pride.And calls him "drunken beast" and runs away—King to himself and fool to all beside.
Sunday Dip
The morning road is thronged with merry boysWho seek the water for their Sunday joys;They run to seek the shallow pit, and wadeAnd dance about the water in the shade.The boldest ventures first and dashes in,And others go and follow to the chin,And duck about, and try to lose their fears,And laugh to hear the thunder in their ears.They bundle up the rushes for a boatAnd try across the deepest place to float:Beneath the willow trees they ride and stoop—The awkward load will scarcely bear them up.Without their aid the others float away,And play about the water half the day.
Merry Maid
Bonny and stout and brown, without a hat,She frowns offended when they call her fat—Yet fat she is, the merriest in the place,And all can know she wears a pretty face.But still she never heeds what praise can say,But does the work, and oft runs out to play,To run about the yard and ramp and noiseAnd spring the mop upon the servant boys.When old hens noise and cackle every whereShe hurries eager if the eggs are dear,And runs to seek them when they lay awayTo get them ready for the market day.She gambols with the men and laughs aloudAnd only quarrels when they call her proud.
Scandal
She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothesTo hear the news and tell the news she knows;She talks of sluts, marks each unmended gown,Her self the dirtiest slut in all the town.She stands with eager haste at slander's tale,And drinks the news as drunkards drink their ale.Excuse is ready at the biggest lie—She only heard it and it passes bye.The very cat looks up and knows her faceAnd hastens to the chair to get the place;When once set down she never goes away,Till tales are done and talk has nought to say.She goes from house to house the village oer,Her slander bothers everybody's door.
Quail's Nest
I wandered out one rainy dayAnd heard a bird with merry joysCry "wet my foot" for half the way;I stood and wondered at the noise,
When from my foot a bird did flee—The rain flew bouncing from her breastI wondered what the bird could be,And almost trampled on her nest.
The nest was full of eggs and round—I met a shepherd in the vales,And stood to tell him what I found.He knew and said it was a quail's,
For he himself the nest had found,Among the wheat and on the green,When going on his daily round,With eggs as many as fifteen.
Among the stranger birds they feed,Their summer flight is short and low;There's very few know where they breed,And scarcely any where they go.
Market Day
With arms and legs at work and gentle strokeThat urges switching tail nor mends his pace,On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse,The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair.Both keep their pace that nothing can provokeFollowed by brindled dog that snuffs the groundWith urging bark and hurries at his heels.His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned closeBellied like hooped keg, and chuffy faceRed as the morning sun, he takes his roundAnd talks of stock: and when his jobs are doneAnd Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack,He drinks success to corn in language hoarse,And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.
Stonepit
The passing traveller with wonder seesA deep and ancient stonepit full of trees;So deep and very deep the place has been,The church might stand within and not be seen.The passing stranger oft with wonder stopsAnd thinks he een could walk upon their tops,And often stoops to see the busy crow,And stands above and sees the eggs below;And while the wild horse gives its head a toss,The squirrel dances up and runs across.The boy that stands and kills the black nosed beeDares down as soon as magpies' nests are found,And wonders when he climbs the highest treeTo find it reaches scarce above the ground.
"The Lass With The Delicate Air"
Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy,She drops her head at every passer bye.Afraid of praise she hurries down the streetsAnd turns away from every smile she meets.The forward clown has many things to sayAnd holds her by the gown to make her stay,The picture of good health she goes along,Hale as the morn and happy as her song.Yet there is one who never feels a fearTo whisper pleasing fancies in her ear;Yet een from him she shuns a rude embrace,And stooping holds her hands before her face,—She even shuns and fears the bolder wind,And holds her shawl, and often looks behind.
The Lout
For Sunday's play he never makes excuse,But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice.Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak,Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek;For none can pass him but his witless graceOf bawdry brings the blushes in her face.As vulgar as the dirt he treads uponHe calls his cows or drives his horses on;He knows the lamest cow and strokes her sideAnd often tries to mount her back and ride,And takes her tail at night in idle play,And makes her drag him homeward all the way.He knows of nothing but the football match,And where hens lay, and when the duck will hatch.
Hodge
He plays with other boys when work is done,But feels too clumsy and too stiff to run,Yet where there's mischief he can find a wayThe first to join and last [to run] away.What's said or done he never hears or mindsBut gets his pence for all the eggs he finds.He thinks his master's horses far the best,And always labours longer than the rest.In frost and cold though lame he's forced to go—The call's more urgent when he journeys slow.In surly speed he helps the maids by forceAnd feeds the cows and hallos till he's hoarse;And when he's lame they only jest and playAnd bid him throw his kiby heels away.
Farm Breakfast
Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife,And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife,And dogs are ever in the way to watchThe mouldy crust and falling bone to catch.The wooden dishes round in haste are set,And round the table all the boys are met;All know their own save Hodge who would be first,But every one his master leaves the worst.On every wooden dish, a humble claim,Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name;From every nook the smile of plenty calls,And rusty flitches decorate the walls,Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease—All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease.
Love and Solitude
I hate the very noise of troublous manWho did and does me all the harm he can.Free from the world I would a prisoner beAnd my own shadow all my company;And lonely see the shooting stars appear,Worlds rushing into judgment all the year.O lead me onward to the loneliest shade,The darkest place that quiet ever made,Where kingcups grow most beauteous to beholdAnd shut up green and open into gold.Farewell to poesy—and leave the will;Take all the world away—and leave me stillThe mirth and music of a woman's voice,That bids the heart be happy and rejoice.