To A City Girl.

A poem by John Clare

Sweet Mary, though nor sighs nor pains
Impassion'd courtship prove,
My simple song the truth ne'er feigns
To win thee to my love:
I ask thee from thy bustling life,
Where nought can pleasing prove,
From city noise, and care, and strife
O come, and be my love!

If harmless mirth delight thine eyes,
Then make my cot thy home;
The country-life abounds with joys,
And whispers thee to come;
Here fiddles urge thy nimble feet
Adown the dance to move,
Here pleasures in continuance meet--
O come, and be my love!

If music's charm, that all delights,
Has witcheries for thee,
The country then my love invites,
In echoed melody;
Here thrushes chant their madrigals,
Here breathes the ringed dove
Soft as day's closing murmur falls--
O come, and be my love!

If nature's prospects, wood, and vale,
Thy visits can entice,
The country's scenes thy coming hail,
To meet a paradise;
Here pride can raise no barring wall
To hide the flower and grove,
Here fields are gardens, free for all--
O come, and be my love!

If music, mirth, and all combine
To make my cot thy home,
To tempt thee, Mary, to be mine,
Then why delay to come?
Here night-birds sing my love to sleep,
Here sweet thy dreams shall prove,
Here in my arms shall Mary creep--
O come, and be my love!

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