The Lout by John Clare Lyrics

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