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.