The Lout
John Clare 1793 (Helpston) – 1864 (St Andrew's Hospital)
For Sunday's play he never makes excuse,
But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice.
Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak,
Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek;
For none can pass him but his witless grace
Of bawdry brings the blushes in her face.
As vulgar as the dirt he treads upon
He calls his cows or drives his horses on;
He knows the lamest cow and strokes her side
And often tries to mount her back and ride,
And takes her tail at night in idle play,
And makes her drag him homeward all the way.
He knows of nothing but the football match,
And where hens lay, and when the duck will hatch.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 37 sec read
- 93 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AABBCCDDEEFFGG |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 602 |
Words | 123 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 14 |
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"The Lout" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 10 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/22312/the-lout>.
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