57482: The Ballad Of Many Thorns

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