 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
YOUNG RABBITS
The idle boys the Sunday never heedAnd go to places where the rabbits breed;
Where'er the moulds are fresh they try and stay
And clap the dog to scrat the moulds away;
He scrats and looks and barks and snuffs to find
The sleepy young ones lapt in down and blind.
They put them in again and look for more
And lap them up as quiet as before.
When any comes they skulk behind the tree.
The gipsy joins them in his rags and glee
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And thrusts his hand and never cares for snake.
The dog, that follows all that passes by,
He ties him to his hand and makes him lie.
| The Poems of John Clare | |