and coy bumbarrels, twenty in a drove,

font: PenultimateLight

 

 

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John Clare

 

Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig

Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread

The fieldfare chatter in the whistling thorn

And for the awe round fields and closen rove

And coy bumbarrels, twenty in a drove

Flit down the hedgerows in the frozen plain

And hang on little twigs and start again

Done