The Lout
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or 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 graceOf bawdry brings the blushes in her face.As vulgar as the dirt he treads uponHe calls his cows or drives his horses on;He knows the lamest cow and strokes her sideAnd 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.
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