The Lout Poem by John Clare

The Lout

Rating: 2.7


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.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Michael Walker 15 October 2019

Louts tend to be much the same everywhere, as I have noticed and had dealings with them. 'As vulgar as the dirt he treads upon', and in my country they know 'of nothing but the football match'. I try to avoid these people. John Clare paints an exact portrait of them in a merciless sonnet.

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John Clare

John Clare

Northamptonshire / England
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