The Ballad of John Clare Read Online Free PDF

round to the front of the farm house. Its barnack stone glowed yellow-gold with the first rays of the sun and the windows on the easterly side blazed with reflected light. He hung the garland from the iron knocker on the front door and, thinking it was a little early yet, sat down on a mounting block and waited. He could hear the clatter of milk pails as they were carried out to the barns swinging on their yokes. He could hear the ‘Whoaaaa’ and ‘Get along there’ as Nathan Cushion drove the milk cows along the lane and into the yard. Downstairs Kate Dyball was pulling the shutters back from the windows. The church clock was striking the half hour after five when John reckoned his moment had come. He picked up a handful of gravel from the path beside the lawn and threw it at the window above the front door. And then he launched into the old song:

    “I’ve been rambling all this night
    And the first part of the day,”

    He flung up another fistful of stones.

    “And now I’m come to your own front door
    To make you the Queen of the May.”

    Above his head John could hear the sound of the shutters being pulled apart. And then the casement window was thrown open. John shouted:
    “Will you be my Queen of the May?”
    “The Devil I will John Clare.”
    John looked up and saw Farmer Joyce’s head, bleary-eyed, unshaven, the nightcap dangling over one ear, squinting down at him.
    “And I’ll thank you not to come caterwauling at my front door before the church clock has struck six of the morning on this or any other cussed day of the year.”
    The window slammed shut. And from the corner of the yard John heard what seemed to him at first to be a sneeze. He turned and saw Will Farrell and a couple of milkmaids peering round the side of the house with their fists in their mouths, rocking with stifled laughter.
    Then from behind him came another sound. A peal of clear laughter that he recognised at once, laughter that seemed to spring out like a rill from behind the yew hedge.
    “John!”
    This was too much for him, to be the mockery and laughing stock of all Glinton. He lowered his head and walked towards the gate vowing, in that moment, never again to show his face at Joyce’s farm.
    Mary, in her nightdress with a blanket tucked about her shoulders, ran after him. She stood in front of him her head tilted in mock reproach.
    “What John Clare, are you come to black my other eye?”
    He could see she still bore a purple stain where he had struck her. He looked at her dumb-founded. Mary tugged at his arm and pulled him back towards the farmhouse.
    “I was up for the dawn John, washing my face in the dew, and I saw you come round to the front door, and I hid behind the hedge, and you sat and so I sat …. and then you sang your song to father ….”
    And she filled the air again with her clear laughter so that John was part mortified and part filled with exaltation. She led him back to the lawn, then broke away and ran along the gravel path to the front door. She lifted the garland in her hands and studied it carefully.
    “Here’s pear for fair, and a sprig of yew …”
    Then she turned to him, her face suddenly solemn:
    “Yes John, I’ll be your May Queen. I’ll be your Queen of the May today.”
    And soon afterwards John found himself sitting at the great table in the farm-house kitchen. Mary had run into the dairy and fetched a jug of whey. She’d poured him a cupful.
    “Wait here, while I dress myself for the fair!”
    He’d sat and supped while Kate Dyball, Lizzie Tucker and Hope Farrell bustled about the kitchen and put food upon the table. They were full of high spirits, for as soon as breakfast was done they would be free to take their holiday. The great iron skillet over the kitchen fire sizzled with ham. The pewter plates on the shelves against the wall glistered in the flickering light like so many battered moons. Above them, on the top shelf, the rows of brass candle-sticks stood, cleaned of