 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
THE LOUT (I)
No sort of learning ever hurts his head;He buys a song and never hears it read;
He gets the tune and never heeds the words;
His pocket, too, a penny oft affords
To buy a book, no matter what about,
And there he keeps it till he wears it out.
In every job he's sure to have a share,
And shouts to haste his speed he cannot bear.
He seldom seeks the house in leisure hour,
But finds the haystack in a sudden shower,
And hid from all he there contrives to lie,
Rain how it will, to keep his garments dry.
He owns one suit and wears it all the week,
A dirty slop as dingy as his cheek.
| The Poems of John Clare | |