With arms and legs at work and gentle stroke <br />That urges switching tail nor mends his pace, <br />On an old ribbed and weather beaten horse, <br />The farmer goes jogtrotting to the fair. <br />Both keep their pace that nothing can provoke <br />Followed by brindled dog that snuffs the ground <br />With urging bark and hurries at his heels. <br />His hat slouched down, and great coat buttoned close <br />Bellied like hooped keg, and chuffy face <br />Red as the morning sun, he takes his round <br />And talks of stock: and when his jobs are done <br />And Dobbin's hay is eaten from the rack, <br />He drinks success to corn in language hoarse, <br />And claps old Dobbin's hide, and potters back.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/market-day-3/
