Song — Summary

John ClareRomantic

Mary, leave thy lowly cot When thy thickest jobs are done; When thy friends will miss thee not, Mary, to the pastures run. Where we met the other night Neath the bush upon the plain, Be it dark or be it light, Ye may guess we'll meet again.

Should ye go or should ye not, Never shilly-shally, dear. Leave your work and leave your cot, Nothing need ye doubt or fear: Fools may tell ye lies in spite, Calling me a roving swain; Think what passed the other night-- I'll be bound ye'll meet again.

Show the whole poemHide the poem

Learn Poems app

Try the Learn Poems app

Everything from the website trainer, and more: new exercises, voice recording and sharing, reminders, quick review.

John Clare’s “Song” is a lover’s eager, coaxing invitation. The speaker urges Mary to slip away from her household chores and her cottage as soon as she can, to meet him in the fields where they were together the other night. He brushes aside any hesitation—“Never shilly-shally, dear”—and tells her to ignore the village gossips who call him a roving, untrustworthy swain. What really matters, he insists, is the memory of what passed between them under the bush on the plain. The voice is tender but firmly confident, half playful persuasion and half earnest promise. Everything in the poem breathes with affectionate impatience and a touch of mischief. The mood feels like a private, moonlit secret, warm and folk-like in its simplicity. There’s no grand declaration, just the repeated, quiet certainty that they will meet again, no matter what others say.

More by John Clare

All poems
SadJohn Clare

To Anna Three Years Old

My Anna, summer laughs in mirth, And we will of the party be, And leave the crickets in the hearth For green fields' merry minstrelsy.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

Dewdrops

The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy-woven beds of primroses underneath the hazels, whitethorns and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped
CheerfulJohn Clare

Field Path

The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow grass was in the swath; The hedge briar rose hung right across the path,