For Sunday's play he never makes excuse, <br />But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice. <br />Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak, <br />Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek; <br />For none can pass him but his witless grace <br />Of bawdry brings the blushes in her face. <br />As vulgar as the dirt he treads upon <br />He calls his cows or drives his horses on; <br />He knows the lamest cow and strokes her side <br />And often tries to mount her back and ride, <br />And takes her tail at night in idle play, <br />And makes her drag him homeward all the way. <br />He knows of nothing but the football match, <br />And where hens lay, and when the duck will hatch.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lout/
