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.