MAD POLL

There goes mad Poll, dressed in wild flowers,

Poor, crazy Poll, now old and wan;

Her hair all down, like any child:

She swings her two arms like a man.

Poor, crazy Poll is never sad,

She never misses one that dies;

When neighbours show their new-born babes,

They seem familiar to her eyes.

Her bonnet's always in her hand,

Or on the ground, and lying near;

She thinks it is a thing for play,

Or pretty show, and not to wear.

She gives the sick no sympathy,

She never soothes a child that cries;

She never whimpers, night or day,

She makes no moans, she makes no sighs.

She talks about some battle old,

Fought many a day from yesterday;

And when that war is done, her love —

“Ha, ha!” Poll laughs, and skips away.