57482: The Ballad Of Many Thorns

A Poet stood in parley
With Carls a-reaping corn.
Quoth one: 'I curse the Barley,
More sharp than any thorn.'
'Although thy hand be torn,
Ill-spoken was thy curse:
I swear thou art forsworn,
If Thistle wound not worse.'
So groaned a footsore Climber,
Had scaled the bristly path:
'What thorns, Sir Carl, Sir Rimer,
Like these the Thistle hath?'
Behold a wan youth ramble
With bleeding cheeks forlorn,
And moans: 'The wanton bramble,
It is the keenest thorn.'
Rode by a wounded Warrior
Deep muttering like a lion:
'Show me the flesh wound sorrier
Than by the barb of Iron!'
Out laughed a man of folly,
Much wine had made him thick:
'The jolly, festive Holly
Deals oft a nasty prick.'
There hung near by a Jesus
With crown�d head for scorn.
'Ah by His brow, who sees us,
Was any like His thorn?'
So sighed a leprous Palmer.
But when he thought afresh:
'Perchance His pain was calmer,
Than this thorn in my flesh.'
Then cried the gentle Poet:
'Not one among ye knows:
The cruelest thorn, I know it,
For having kissed the Rose.'