Maypole

A Maypole

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 join'd such numbers hand in hand.

I join'd 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 damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd 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.

Jonathan Swift