Clare Market
In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare
Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there;
That I take a delight on a Saturday night
In walking that way and in viewing the sight.
For it's here that one sees all the objects that please--
New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,
For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,
And baubles galore while discretion enjoys--
But here I forbear, for I really despair
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.
A rich man comes down from the elegant town
And looks at it all with an ominous frown;
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;
And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud
That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed;
He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,
And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum
Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;
He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies,
And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise
At the goodies they vend and the toys without end--
And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend!
But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze
At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze--
What sense of despair in this world can compare
With that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites
A stroll in old London for curious sights,
I am likely to stray by a devious way
Where goodies are spread in a motley array,
The things which some eyes would appear to despise
Impress me as pathos in homely disguise,
And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend,
So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend);
And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare
That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.
poem by Eugene Field
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Merry Maid
Bonny and stout and brown, without a hat,
She frowns offended when they call her fat--
Yet fat she is, the merriest in the place,
And all can know she wears a pretty face.
But still she never heeds what praise can say,
But does the work, and oft runs out to play,
To run about the yard and ramp and noise
And spring the mop upon the servant boys.
When old hens noise and cackle every where
She hurries eager if the eggs are dear,
And runs to seek them when they lay away
To get them ready for the market day.
She gambols with the men and laughs aloud
And only quarrels when they call her proud.
poem by John Clare
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When my daughter, Clare, was 4, she told me that a school friend had told her what I did for a living. Clare asked me, 'Is it true you play Jack Rabbit?'
quote by Peter Bergman
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There was a Young Lady of Clare,
Who was sadly pursued by a bear;
When she found she was tired,
She abruptly expired,
That unfortunate Lady of Clare.
by Edward Lear from A Book of Nonsense (1846)
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I think the market is always going to be around. The goal is not to say, let's get rid of the market, because the market does render a huge number of services, and I don't want to have a fight about the price of something every time I buy a book or a bottle of water.
quote by Susan George
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clare's Dragoons
When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
The Flags we conquered in that fray
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company to-day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!
The brave old lord died near the fight,
But, for each dropp he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
Could we the Saxon soldiers get
To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old one, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the shamrock shine for ever new!
Another Clare is here to lead,
The worthy son of such a breed;
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons.
Our Colonel comes from Brian's race,
His wounds are in his breast and face,
The bearna baoghail[81] is still his place,
The foremost of his bold Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old one, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the shamrock shine for ever new!
There's not a man in squadron here
Was ever known to flinch or fear;
Though first in charge and last in rere,
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons;
But see! we'll soon have work to do,
To shame our boasts, or prove them true,
For hither comes the English crew,
To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!
Oh! comrades! think how Ireland pines,
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons.
Then fling your Green Flag to the sky.
Be 'Limerick' your battle-cry,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,
Around the track of Clare's Dragoons!
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old one, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the shamrock shine for ever new!
song, lyrics by Thomas Davis
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My Friends Have Left Me
(after John Clare)
My friends have left me,
they do know me not
and at times I am struggling with my sanity
but there are still some words that I have got
while the sense of nothingness
envelops all of my world
and to everything I have a strange aloofness
while I am trying to hold
onto some kind of meaning
as my life under the whip of destiny bends
but it's at the edge of disaster that I am leaning
and it feels as if everything somehow ends
while instinctively I know
over the edge at a time I have got to go
[References: 'I am - yet what I am none cares or knows' by John Clare.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Now I Have My Eyes On Dinner
When I say I am seeking something substantial in my life?
Why does that make you laugh to see me at a flea market?
I am seeking something that doesn't need to be high maintenanced...
Looking for wrinkles to moisturized.
To get nipped and tucked when bags begin to sag.
'And...
You are going to find that at a flea market? '
OH yes.
Some people don't know quality to throw it away.
Just like that.
Maybe recently divorced?
Or separated?
'You are talking about being at flea market,
Right! '
Ab-so-yes indeed-lutely!
And today must be my lucky day.
Because I am looking at a bargain.
A steal that's too genuine to leave.
And...
What do you think I've discovered?
'A day you found something priceless? '
Is there such a thing...
Of hoping to spend every moment,
With something so priceless...
To wish it is available?
'What can I say?
Your discovery is as good as mine? '
Are you sure you don't want to look around?
'What makes you think I haven't been doing just that?
I was hoping to see those candleholders you purchased,
Last week...
Again.'
So you had your eyes on 'them' too?
'Very much so.
Now I have my eyes on dinner! '
With breakfast?
'And lunch? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Maude Clare
Out of the church she followed them
With a lofty step and mien:
His bride was like a village maid,
Maude Clare was like a queen.
“Son Thomas, ” his lady mother said,
With smiles, almost with tears:
“May Nell and you but live as true
As we have done for years;
“Your father thirty years ago
Had just your tale to tell;
But he was not so pale as you,
Nor I so pale as Nell.”
My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;
My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
Or ever he kissed the bride.
“Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,
Have brought my gift, ” she said:
To bless the hearth, to bless the board,
To bless the marriage-bed.
“Here’s my half of the golden chain
You wore about your neck,
That day we waded ankle-deep
For lilies in the beck:
“Here’s my half of the faded leaves
We plucked from the budding bough,
With feet amongst the lily leaves, -
The lilies are budding now.”
He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
He faltered in his place:
“Lady, ” he said, - “Maude Clare, ” he said, -
“Maude Clare, ” – and hid his face.
She turn’d to Nell: “My Lady Nell,
I have a gift for you;
Though, were it fruit, the blooms were gone,
Or, were it flowers, the dew.
“Take my share of a fickle heart,
Mine of a paltry love:
Take it or leave it as you will,
I wash my hands thereof.”
“And what you leave, ” said Nell, “I’ll take,
And what you spurn, I’ll wear;
For he’s my lord for better and worse,
And him I love Maude Clare.
“Yea, though you’re taller by the head,
More wise and much more fair:
I’ll love him till he loves me best,
Me best of all Maude Clare.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Arguably John Clare
In the English language the greatest poet of Nature is arguably John Clare
Many of his bird and animal and insect poems are gems beyond compare
Yet he died in Northampton mental asylum where he had lived for many years
He penned such marvellous poetry though his life was full of tears.
His Nature poems of the nineteenth century are relevant to today
The Badger and The Landrail, The Fox and Clock a Clay
The Pettichap, The Cuckoo and The Thrush's Nest
When Writing about Nature Clare was at his best.
In death the poor shepherd poet from Helpston has come into his own
His poems poetic classics around the World are known
The greatest Nature poet of England as many would agree
A poet for the ages from a life of poverty.
As a boy amongst Nature in the fields of Helpston he knew of happiness
But sad to think one like him in life did not know of success
With any English Nature poet he favourably does compare
The legendary one of Helpston the reamarkable John Clare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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London Boys
Cow bell strikes another night
Your eyes are heavy and your limbs all ache
You've bought some coffee, butter and bread
You can't make a thing cause the meter's dead
You moved away
Hold your folks you're gonna stay away
Bright lights, Soho, Wardour street
You hope you make friends with the guys that you meet
Somebody shows you round
Now you've met the London boys
Things seem good again, someone cares about you
Oh, the first time that you tried a pill
You feel a little queasy, decidedly ill
You're gonna be sick, but you mustn't lose faith
To let yourself down would be a big disgrace
With the London boys, with the London boys
You're only seventeen, but you think you've grown
In the month you've been away from your parents' home
You take the pills too much
You don't give a damn about that jobs you've got
So long as you're with the London boys
A London boy, oh a London boy
Your flashy clothes are your pride and joy
A London boy, a London boy
You think you've had a lot of fun
But you ain't got nothing, you're on the run
It's too late now, cause you're out there boy
You've got it made with the rest of the toys
Now you wish you'd never left your home
You've got what you wanted but you're on your own
With the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
Now you've met the London boys
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Francesco and Clare
It was there, in that little town On top of the mountain, they walked, Francesco and Chiara, That's who they were, that's what They told themselves--a joke, their joke About two saints, failed lovers held apart From the world of flesh, Francis and Clare, Out walking the old city, two saints, Sainted ones, holy, held close to the life... Poverty, the pure life, the one Life for Franziskus and Klara, Stalwarts given To the joys of God in heaven And on earth, Mother, praising Brother Sun And sister Moon; twin saints, unified In their beauty as one, Francisco and Clara, A beauty said of God's will and word, bestowed And polished by poverty, François With Claire, the chosen poverty, the true Poverty that would not be their lives... And they took their favorite names, Clare and Francesco, Walking the streets of stone the true saints Walked, watching as the larks swirled Above the serene towers, the larks Francesco once described as the color Of goodness, that is, of the earth, of the dead... Larks who'd not seek for themselves any extravagant Plumage, humble and simple, God's birds Twirling and twisting up the pillowing air... And Francesco said to Clare, Oh little plant I love,
My eyes are almost blind with Brother Sun...tell me,
Who hides inside God's time...? And Clare, rock of all Poor Clares, stood In the warm piazza overlooking the valley, weary, Her shoulder bag sagging from the weight Of her maps and books, and said across the rain-slick Asphalt of the parking lot, to the poor bird climbing The wheel of sky it always had loved best, Dear lark, dear saint, all my kisses on your nest!
poem by David St. John
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Lady Clare
IT was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in scorn-
Lovers long-betroth'd were they:
They too will wed the morrow morn:
God's blessing on the day !
'He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well,' said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the nurse,
Said, 'Who was this that went from thee?'
'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare,
'To-morrow he weds vith me.'
'O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse,
' That all comes round so just and fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare.'
'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?'
Said Lady Clare, 'that ye speak so wild?'
'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse,
' I speak the truth: you are my child.
'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;
I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead.'
'Falsely, falsely have ye done,
O mother,' she said, ' if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due.'
'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse,
'But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife.'
' If I'm a beggar born,' she said,
'I will speak out, for I dare not lie.
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by.'
'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse,
'But keep the secret all ye can.'
She said, ' Not so: but I will know
If there be any faith in man.'
'Nay now, what faith ?' said Alice the nurse,
'The man will cleave unto his right.'
'And he shall have it,' the lady replied,
'Tho' I should die to-night.'
'Yet give one kiss to your mother dear !
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee.'
'O mother, mother, mother,' she said,
'So strange it seems to me.
'Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go.'
She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,
And follow'd her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:
'O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you drest like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth?'
'If I come drest like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:
I am a beggar born,' she said,
'And not the Lady Clare.'
'Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald,
'For I am yours in word and in deed.
Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald,
'Your riddle is hard to read.'
O and proudly stood she up !
Her heart within her did not fail:
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes,
And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn:
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood:
'If you are not the heiress born,
And I,' said he, 'the next in blood--
'If you are not the heiress born,
And I,' said he, ' the lawful heir,
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare.'
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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London Pool
London Pool's in London town,
Ay, boys! O boys!
London Pool's in London town,
Where the great ships anchor down!
O to shake the canvas free,
Hear the cordage cheerily
Whistling to the open sea
Down from London Pool, O!
London Pool's a crowded place,
Ay, boys! O boys!
London Pool's a crowded place,
Crafts and crews of every race!
O to hear the clanking chain
Trail along the wharf again, -
Hear the tautening ropes astrain
Down from London Pool, O!
London Pool's a gallant sight,
Ay, boys! O boys!
London Pool's a gallant sight,
Toil by day and glare by night!
O to shake our heels and go, -
Feel the four free winds ablow,
Hail the lights of long ago
Down from London Pool, O!
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Most people might just as well buy a share of the whole market, which pools all the information, than delude themselves into thinking they know something the market doesn't.
quote by Merton Miller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come And Buy My Toys
Smiling girls and rosy boys
Come and buy my little toys
Monkeys made of gingerbread
And sugar horses painted red
Rich men's children running past
Their fathers dressed in hose
Golden hair and mud of many acres on their shoes
Gazing eyes and running wild
Past the stocks and over stiles
Kiss the window merry child
But come and buy my toys
You've watched your father plough the fields with a ram's horn
Sowed it wide with peppercorn and furrowed with a bramble thorn
Reaped it with a sharpened scyth, threashed it with a quill
The miller told your father that he'd work it with the greatest will
Now your watching's over you must play with girls and boys
Leave the parsley on the stalls
Come and buy my toys
You shall own a cambric shirt
You shall work your father's land
But now you shall play in the market square
Till you'll be a man
Smiling girls and rosy boys
Come and buy my little toys
Monkeys made of gingerbread
And sugar horses painted red
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Food Left To Rot
market price
market fixed
market profit
not worth picking
costs more picking
than sold price paid
never fruit picked
never taste eaten
never starving fed
global waste sickening
poem by Terence George Craddock
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London Fog - 0023
Fog hangs heavy in London air,
brokers rest but for a prayer;
eyes aghast, souls in despair,
seeking business everywhere.
Bargains booked throughout the day
decline in number, then don't pay.
All about them makes them say:
'No more at market will we play! '
(12 December 1974)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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If the market is left to sort matters out, social injustice will be heightened and suffering in the community will grow with the neglect the market fosters.
quote by Helen Clark
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The Changes At The Un
I spent my youth with a gun and a dog in the fields of Clare,
Hunting rabbits and pheasants and ducks and fast running hare,
So the long tail feathers of the cock pheasants, I knew well,
Then I became a member Canadian navel personnel.
At the UN in the mid 50s looking down from balcony,
A pheasant feather in a lady’s hat amid UN pageantry,
Sitting down there at the Irish desk but she didn’t care,
That the face on the balcony came all the way from County Clare.
But those were the days when the UN had a very good name,
Not like nowadays when so many tend to viciously complain,
But that was very long ago and I was much younger then,
Am I the only one who noticed the change, now among the old men?
JAN 19th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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A crash really occurs when you suddenly have a violent downturn in the market that then heralds a long bull market.
quote by Ron Chernow
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