 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
350
THE THRESHER
With hand in waistcoat thrust, the thresher goesEarly at morn to follow his employ;
He nothing wants to know and nothing knows,
And wearies life along with little joy;
He lives without the world among the poor,
And nothing sees but stock agen the door,
And hears the felfare droves before the storm
Stripping the hawthorn hedges round the farm.
The shepherd seeks his door, but cannot stay,
And tells his only news—the time of day;
The milk[maid] stops awhile her hands to blow
And shake her cloak and bonnet from the snow;
Hard labour is the all his life enjoyed,
His idlest leisure is to be employed.
| The Poems of John Clare | |