Swift, Johnathan - A Maypole

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A Maypole

Jonathan Swift

http://www.blackmask.com

Deprived of root, and branch and rind,

Yet flowers I bear of every kind:

And such is my prolific power,

They bloom in less than half an hour;

Yet standers−by may plainly see

They get no nourishment from me.

My head with giddiness goes round,

And yet I firmly stand my ground:

All over naked I am seen,

And painted like an Indian queen.

No couple−beggar in the land

E'er joined such numbers hand in hand.

I joined them fairly with a ring;

Nor can our parson blame the thing.

And though no marriage words are spoke,

They part not till the ring is broke;

Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,

I'm but an idol raised on high;

And once a weaver in our town,

A damned Cromwellian, knocked me down.

I lay a prisoner twenty years,

And then the jovial cavaliers

To their old post restored all three

I mean the church, the king, and me.

A Maypole 1

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Swift, Johnathan - A Maypole

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