Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy, She drops her head at every passer bye. Afraid of praise she hurries down the streets And turns away from every smile she meets. The forward clown has many things to say And holds her by the gown to make her stay, The picture of good health she goes along, Hale as the morn and happy as her song. Yet there is one who never feels a fear To whisper pleasing fancies in her ear; Yet een from him she shuns a rude embrace, And stooping holds her hands before her face,-- She even shuns and fears the bolder wind, And holds her shawl, and often looks behind. _The Lout_ 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. _Hodge_ He plays with other boys when work is done, But feels too clumsy and too stiff to run, Yet where there's mischief he can find a way The first to join and last [to run] away. What's said or done he never hears or minds But gets his pence for all the eggs he finds. He thinks his master's horses far the best, And always labours longer than the rest. In frost and cold though lame he's forced to go-- The call's more urgent when he journeys slow. In surly speed he helps the maids by force And feeds the cows and hallos till he's hoarse; And when he's lame they only jest and play And bid him throw his kiby heels away. _Farm Breakfast_ Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife, And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife, And dogs are ever in the way to watch The mouldy crust and falling bone to catch. The wooden dishes round in haste are set, And round the table all the boys are met; All know their own save Hodge who would be first, But every one his master leaves the worst. On every wooden dish, a humble claim, Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name; From every nook the smile of plenty calls, And rusty flitches decorate the walls, Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease-- All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease. _Love and Solitude_