Adieu To My False Love Forever

    The week before Easter, the days long and clear,
    So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air,
    I went in the meadow some flowers to find there,
    But the meadow would yield me no posies.

    The weather, like love, did deceitful appear,
    And I wandered alone when my sorrow was near,
    For the thorn that wounds deeply doth bide the whole year,
    When the bush it is naked of roses.

    I courted a girl that was handsome and gay,
    I thought her as constant and true as the day,
    Till she married for riches and said my love "Nay,"
    And so my poor heart got requited.

    I was bid to the bridal; I could not say "No:"
    The bridemen and maidens they made a fine show;
    I smiled like the rest but my heart it was low,
    To think how its hopes they were blighted.

    The bride started gaily, the weather was fine,
    Her parents looked after, and thought her divine;
    She smiled in their faces, but looked not in mine,
    Indeed I'd no heart to regard her.

    Though love like the poplar doth lift its head high,
    The top it may fade and the root it may die,
    And they may have heart-aches that now live in joy,
    But Heaven I'll leave to reward her.

    When I saw my false love in the merry church stand,
    With her ring on her finger and her love in her hand,
    Smiling out in the joy of her houses and land,
    My sighs I strove vainly to smother.

    When my false love for dinner did dainties partake,
    I sat me down also, but nothing could eat;
    I thought her sweet company better than meat,
    Although she was tied to another.

    When my false love had gone to her bride bed at night,
    My eyes filled with water which made double my sight;
    I thought she was there when she'd bade us "Good night"
    And her chair was put by till the morrow.

    I drank to her joy with a tear on my face,
    And the wine glass as usual I pushed on the space,
    Nor knew she was gone till I looked at the place,
    Such a fool was I made of by sorrow.

    Now make me a bed in yon river so deep,
    Let its waves be my mourners; nought living will weep,
    And there let me lie and take a long sleep,
    So adieu to my false love for ever.

John Clare

John Clare was an English poet known for his celebrations of the English countryside and lamentation of its disruption. Born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, Clare was initially a farm laborer. His poetry is characterized by its natural imagery and rustic language. Despite periods of fame during his period, Clare spent the later part of his life in an asylum due to mental health issues. His works gained greater recognition posthumously. Clare's major poem collections include "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Shepherd's Calendar."

John Clare

Song

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In Hilly-Wood

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Badger

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Mary Dove

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English

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Betrayed

    Dream not of love, to think it like
    What waking love may prove to be,
    For I dreamed so and broke my heart,
    When my false lover slighted me.

    Love, like to flowers, is sweet when green;
    The rose in bud aye best appears;
    And she that loves a handsome man
    Should have more wit than she has years.

    I put my finger in a bush,
    Thinking the sweeter rose to find;
    I pricked my finger to the bone,
    And left the sweetest rose behind.

    I threw a stone into the sea,
    And deep it sunk into the sand,
    And so did my poor heart in me
    When my false lover left the land.

    I watched the sun an hour too soon
    Set into clouds behind the town;
    So my false lover left, and said
   ...

John Clare

The False Knight's Tragedy

    A false knight wooed a maiden poor,
    And his high halls left he
    To stoop in at her cottage door,
    When night left none to see.

    And, well-a-day, it is a tale
    For pity too severe--
    A tale would melt the sternest eye,
    And wake the deafest ear.

    He stole her heart, he stole her love,
    'T was all the wealth she had;
    Her truth and fame likewise stole he,

    *    *    *    *

    And they rode on, and they rode on;
    Far on this pair did ride,
    Till the maiden's heart with fear and love
    Beat quick against her side.

    And on they rode till rocks grew high.
    "Sir Knight, what have we here?"
    "Unsaddle, maid, for here we stop:"
    And death's tongue smote her ear.

John Clare

Fare Thee Well

[Clare's note:--"Scraps from my father and mother, completed."]

    Here's a sad good bye for thee, my love,
    To friends and foes a smile:
    I leave but one regret behind,
    That's left with thee the while,
    But hopes that fortune is our friend
    Already pays the toil.

    Force bids me go, your friends to please.
    Would they were not so high!
    But be my lot on land or seas,
    It matters not where by,
    For I shall keep a thought for thee,
    In my heart's core to lie.

    Winter shall lose its frost and snow,
    The spring its blossomed thorn,
    The summer all its bloom forego,
    The autumn hound and horn
    Ere I will lose that thought of thee,
    Or ever prove forsworn.

    The dove shall ...

John Clare

Adieu!

"Adieu, my love, adieu!
Be constant and be true
As the daisies gemmed with dew,
Bonny maid."
The cows their thirst were slaking,
Trees the playful winds were shaking;
Sweet songs the birds were making
In the shade.

The moss upon the tree
Was as green as green could be,
The clover on the lea
Ruddy glowed;
Leaves were silver with the dew,
Where the tall sowthistles grew,
And I bade the maid adieu
On the road.

Then I took myself to sea,
While the little chiming bee
Sung his ballad on the lea,
Humming sweet;
And the red-winged butterfly
Was sailing through the sky,
Skimming up and bouncing by
Near my feet.

I left the little birds,
And sweet lowing of the herds,
And couldn't find out words,
Do...

John Clare

Farewell And Defiance To Love

Love and thy vain employs, away
From this too oft deluded breast!
No longer will I court thy stay,
To be my bosom's teazing guest.
Thou treacherous medicine, reckoned pure,
Thou quackery of the harassed heart,
That kills what it pretends to cure,
Life's mountebank thou art.

With nostrums vain of boasted powers,
That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave;
An asp hid in a group of flowers,
That bites and stings when few perceive;
Thou mock-truce to the troubled mind,
Leading it more in sorrow's way,
Freedom, that leaves us more confined,
I bid thee hence away.

Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond
The resolution reason gave?
Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond,
That kept me once thy quiet slave,
And made thy snare a spider's thread,
W...

John Clare

Song

I would not feign a single sigh
Nor weep a single tear for thee:
The soul within these orbs burns dry;
A desert spreads where love should be.
I would not be a worm to crawl
A writhing suppliant in thy way;
For love is life, is heaven, and all
The beams of an immortal day.

For sighs are idle things and vain,
And tears for idiots vainly fall.
I would not kiss thy face again
Nor round thy shining slippers crawl.
Love is the honey, not the bee,
Nor would I turn its sweets to gall
For all the beauty found in thee,
Thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.

I would not feign a single tale
Thy kindness or thy love to seek;
Nor sigh for Jenny of the Vale,
Her ruby smile or rosy cheek.
I would not have a pain to own
For those dark curls an...

John Clare