Poor( crazy .Tane Wanders the roads in wind and rain. Abort the countryside she strecis, With tattered skirts about her heels. With odd, torn gloves on either hand She dreams that she is someone grand. For tall she is and haughty-necked, Her crooked bonnet queerly decked With faded roses and a veil That wisps about her in a gale.
Poor crazy Jane, To look to her for sense is vain.
Wrapped in a shabby velvet coat Stravaging round like some old goat. Her man was gardener, she said, Upon the boat to Holyhead.
She laughed : " I'm telling you," said she, " There's no one knows—I'm quality. They'd fall out of their standing, dear, If they could guess the queen is here ! "
Poor crazy Jane.
Would she be happy were she sane, Robbed of her dreams of rank and state, When she beneath her rags is great ?
The posy that she loves to hold, May be to her an orb of gold.
Her battered bonnet, ragged gown, An ermined robe and royal crown.
I wonder is she better so Than in the dull plain world I know.
W. M. Lm-ts.