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.