 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
344
THE TRAMP
He eats (a moment's stoppage to his song)The stolen turnip as he goes along;
And hops along and heeds with careless eye
The passing crowded stage-coach reeling by.
He talks to none, but wends his silent way,
And finds a hovel at the close of day,
Or under any hedge his house is made.
He has no calling and he owns no trade.
An old smoked blanket arches o'er his head,
A wisp of straw or stubble makes his bed.
He knows a lawless law that claims no kin
But meet and plunder on and feel no sin—
No matter where they go or where they dwell,
They dally with the winds and laugh at hell.
| The Poems of John Clare | |