Selected Poems of John Clare
Volume 1
Volume 1
The Harvest Morning
Cocks wake the early morn wi' many a Crow
Loud ticking village clock has counted four
The labouring rustic hears his restless foe
And weary bones and pains complaining sore
Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor
Some busy 'gin to team the loaded corn
Which night throng'd round the barns becrouded door
Such plentious scenes the farmers yards adorn
Such busy bustling toils now mark the harvest morn
The birdboy's pealing horn is loudly blow'd
The waggons jostle on wi' rattling round
And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road
Grunting and gabbling in contension round
The barley ears that litter on the ground -
What printing traces mark the waggons way
What busy bustling wakens echo round
How drives the suns warm beams the mist away
How labour sweats and toils and dreads the sultry day
His scythe the mower oer his shoulder leans
And wetting jars wi' sharp and tinkling sound
Then sweeps again 'mong corn and crackling beans
And swath by swath flops lengthening oer the ground
While 'neath some friendly heap snug shelterd round
From spoiling sun lies hid their hearts delight
And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round
Their toils pursuing with redoubl'd might
Refreshments cordial hail -
Great praise to him be due that brought thy birth to light
Upon the waggon now with eager bound
The lusty picker wirls the rustling sheaves
Or ponderous resting creaking fork aground
Boastful at once whole shocks o' barley heaves
The loading boy revengefull inly greaves
To find his unmatch'd strength and power decay
Tormenting horns his garments inter weaves
Smarting and sweating 'neath the sultry day
Wi' muttering curses stung he mauls the heaps away
A Motley group the Clearing field surrounds
Sons of Humanity O neer deny
The humble gleaner entrance in your groungs
Winters sad cold and poverty is nigh
O grudge not providence her scant supply
You'll never miss it from your ample store -
Who gives denial harden'd hungry hound
May never blessings crow'd his hated door
But he shall never lack that giveth to the poor
Ah lovely Ema mingling wi' the rest
Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen
Thy rosey cheeks thy sweetly swelling breast
But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean
O poverty! how basely you demean
The imprison'd worth your rigid fates confine
Not fancied charms of an arcadian queen
So sweet as Emas real beauties shine
Had fortune blest sweet girl this lot had neer been thine
The suns increasing heat now mounted high
Refreshment must recruit exhausted power
The waggon stops the busy tools thrown bye
And 'neath a shock's enjoy'd the beavering hour
The bashful maid - sweet healths engaging flower
Lingering behind - oer rake still blushing bends
And when to take the horn fond swains implore
With feign'd excuses its dislike pretends
So pass the beavering hours - So harvest morning ends
O rural life what charms thy meaness hide
What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing
What Loves what Graces on thy plains abide
O could I soar me on the muses wing
What riffel'd charms should my researches bring
Pleas'd would I wander where these charms reside
Of rural sports and beauties would I sing
Those beauties wealth which you but vain deride
Beauties of richest bloom superior to your pride
Cocks wake the early morn wi' many a Crow
Loud ticking village clock has counted four
The labouring rustic hears his restless foe
And weary bones and pains complaining sore
Hobbles to fetch his horses from the moor
Some busy 'gin to team the loaded corn
Which night throng'd round the barns becrouded door
Such plentious scenes the farmers yards adorn
Such busy bustling toils now mark the harvest morn
The birdboy's pealing horn is loudly blow'd
The waggons jostle on wi' rattling round
And hogs and geese now throng the dusty road
Grunting and gabbling in contension round
The barley ears that litter on the ground -
What printing traces mark the waggons way
What busy bustling wakens echo round
How drives the suns warm beams the mist away
How labour sweats and toils and dreads the sultry day
His scythe the mower oer his shoulder leans
And wetting jars wi' sharp and tinkling sound
Then sweeps again 'mong corn and crackling beans
And swath by swath flops lengthening oer the ground
While 'neath some friendly heap snug shelterd round
From spoiling sun lies hid their hearts delight
And hearty soaks oft hand the bottle round
Their toils pursuing with redoubl'd might
Refreshments cordial hail -
Great praise to him be due that brought thy birth to light
Upon the waggon now with eager bound
The lusty picker wirls the rustling sheaves
Or ponderous resting creaking fork aground
Boastful at once whole shocks o' barley heaves
The loading boy revengefull inly greaves
To find his unmatch'd strength and power decay
Tormenting horns his garments inter weaves
Smarting and sweating 'neath the sultry day
Wi' muttering curses stung he mauls the heaps away
A Motley group the Clearing field surrounds
Sons of Humanity O neer deny
The humble gleaner entrance in your groungs
Winters sad cold and poverty is nigh
O grudge not providence her scant supply
You'll never miss it from your ample store -
Who gives denial harden'd hungry hound
May never blessings crow'd his hated door
But he shall never lack that giveth to the poor
Ah lovely Ema mingling wi' the rest
Thy beauties blooming in low life unseen
Thy rosey cheeks thy sweetly swelling breast
But ill it suits thee in the stubs to glean
O poverty! how basely you demean
The imprison'd worth your rigid fates confine
Not fancied charms of an arcadian queen
So sweet as Emas real beauties shine
Had fortune blest sweet girl this lot had neer been thine
The suns increasing heat now mounted high
Refreshment must recruit exhausted power
The waggon stops the busy tools thrown bye
And 'neath a shock's enjoy'd the beavering hour
The bashful maid - sweet healths engaging flower
Lingering behind - oer rake still blushing bends
And when to take the horn fond swains implore
With feign'd excuses its dislike pretends
So pass the beavering hours - So harvest morning ends
O rural life what charms thy meaness hide
What sweet descriptions bards disdain to sing
What Loves what Graces on thy plains abide
O could I soar me on the muses wing
What riffel'd charms should my researches bring
Pleas'd would I wander where these charms reside
Of rural sports and beauties would I sing
Those beauties wealth which you but vain deride
Beauties of richest bloom superior to your pride
Poems
chosen by David Barnes from
Oxford World Classics: John Clare Major Works, and recorded for LibriVox.org
Oxford World Classics: John Clare Major Works, and recorded for LibriVox.org