In silence some days Polly brooded, from grief;
The oilman’s bereft of his wits, to be brief.
He plucked at his beard; he heaved a deep sigh;
“Alas!” then, he shrieked out, “day’s darkened on high10
My hand, would it withered had, ere I’d struck Poll;
I’ve silenced her prattle that always was droll!”
His alms now he showers on each passing scamp,
In hopes Poll her chatter ’d get back by some tramp.
Three days and three nights in this guise did he pass,
Despair at his heart, like a lorn lovesick lass;