Little Trotty Wagtail he went in the rain And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again, He stooped to get a worm and looked up to get a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry. Little Trotty Wagtail he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. He waddled in the water pudge and waggle went his tail, And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail. Little Trotty Wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling waterpudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand and in the warm pig stye, So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a goodbye.
Three Rustic Poems
Song Cycle by Terence Greaves (b. 1933)
1. Little Trotty Wagtail  [sung text checked 1 time]
- by John Clare (1793 - 1864), "Little Trotty Wagtail", appears in Life and Remains of John Clare, first published 1873 [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
See other settings of this text.Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
2. Quail's Nest  [sung text checked 1 time]
I wandered out one rainy day And heard a bird with merry joys Cry "wet my foot" for half the way; I stood and wondered at the noise, When from my foot a bird did flee-- The rain flew bouncing from her breast I wondered what the bird could be, And almost trampled on her nest. The nest was full of eggs and round-- I met a shepherd in the vales, And stood to tell him what I found. He knew and said it was a quail's, For he himself the nest had found, Among the wheat and on the green, When going on his daily round, With eggs as many as fifteen. Among the stranger birds they feed, Their summer flight is short and low; There's very few know where they breed, And scarcely any where they go.
- by John Clare (1793 - 1864) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
3. November  [sung text checked 1 time]
The shepherds almost wonder where they dwell And the old dog for his right journey stares: The path leads somewhere, but they cannot tell And neighbour meets with neighbour unawares. The maiden passes close beside her cow, And wanders on, and thinks her far away; The ploughman goes unseen behind his plough, And seems to lose his horses half the day. The lazy mist creeps on in journey slow; The maidens shout and wonder where they go; Do dull and dark are the November days. The lazy mist high up the evening curled, And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze; The place we ocupy seems all the world.
- by John Clare (1793 - 1864), "November" [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
See other settings of this text.Researcher for this text: Ton van der Steenhoven