Indeed I heard one bitter word
That scarce is fit for you to hear;
Her manners had not that repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
There stands a spectre in your hall:
The guilt of blood is at your door:
You changed a wholesome heart to gall.
You held your course without remorse,
To make him trust his modest worth,
And, last, you fix’d a vacant stare,
And slew him with your noble birth.
Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heavens above us bent
The grand old gardener and his wife [1]
Smile at the claims of long descent.
Howe’er it be, it seems to me,
’Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:
You pine among your halls and towers:
The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
If Time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,
Nor any poor about your lands?
Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,
Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,
Pray Heaven for a human heart,
And let the foolish yoeman go.
[Footnote 1: 1842 and 1843. “The gardener
Adam and his wife.” In 1845 it was altered
to the present text.]
The first two parts were first published in 1833.
The scenery is typical of Lincolnshire; in Fitzgerald’s
phrase, it is all Lincolnshire inland, as ‘Locksley
Hall’ is seaboard.
You must wake and call me early, call
me early, mother dear;
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time
of all the glad [1] New-year;
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the
maddest merriest day;
For I’m to be Queen o’ the
May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
There’s many a black, black eye,
they say, but none so bright as mine;
There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s
Kate and Caroline:
But none so fair as little Alice in all
the land they say,
So I’m to be Queen o’ the
May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that
I shall never wake,
If you [2] do not call me loud when the
day begins to break:
But I must gather knots of flowers, and
buds and garlands gay,
For I’m to be Queen o’ the
May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
As I came up the valley whom think ye
should I see,
But Robin [3] leaning on the bridge beneath
the hazel-tree?
He thought of that sharp look, mother,
I gave him yesterday,—
But I’m to be Queen o’ the
May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.
