John Clare paints a cutting portrait of a village busybody who thrives on spreading scandal. She rushes out half-dressed, desperate to swap the latest rumours, and talks relentlessly about other women’s loose morals or untidy clothes — all while being, in the speaker’s eyes, the filthiest hypocrite around. The mood is one of scornful, almost gleeful disgust. Clare compares her thirst for slander to a drunkard gulping ale; she swallows every lie with a ready excuse, never taking blame for the damage she causes. Even the household cat, knowing her intrusive nature, vacates its chair as soon as she settles in. There’s a sense of grimy inevitability as she makes her rounds from door to door, trailing noise and poison everywhere. The speaker’s attitude is unsparing and sardonic, leaving the reader with the vivid, uncomfortable picture of a person hollowed out by her own venom.
Scandal — Summary
She hastens out and scarcely pins her clothes To hear the news and tell the news she knows; She talks of sluts, marks each unmended gown, Her self the dirtiest slut in all the town. She stands with eager haste at slander's tale, And drinks the news as drunkards drink their ale. Excuse is ready at the biggest lie-- She only heard it and it passes bye. The very cat looks up and knows her face And hastens to the chair to get the place; When once set down she never goes away, Till tales are done and talk has nought to say. She goes from house to house the village oer, Her slander bothers everybody's door.