THE FECKENHAM MEN
The jolly men at Feckenham
Don’t count their goods as common men,
Their heads are full of silly dreams
From half-past ten to half-past ten,
They’ll tell you why the stars are bright,
And some sheep black and some sheep white.
The jolly men at Feckenham
Draw wages of the sun and rain,
And count as good as golden coin
The blossoms on the window-pane,
And Lord! they love a sinewy tale
Told over pots of foaming ale.
Now here’s a tale of Feckenham
Told to me by a Feckenham man,
Who, being only eighty years,
Ran always when the red fox ran,
And looked upon the earth with eyes
As quiet as unclouded skies.
These jolly men of Feckenham
One day when summer strode in power
Went down, it seems, among their lands
And saw their bean fields all in flower—
“Wheat-ricks,” they said, “be good to see;
What would a rick of blossoms be?”
So straight they brought the sickles out
And worked all day till day was done,
And builded them a good square rick
Of scented bloom beneath the sun.
And was not this I tell to you
A fiery-hearted thing to do?
THE TRAVELLER
When March was master of furrow and fold,
And the skies kept cloudy festival
And the daffodil pods were tipped with gold
And a passion was in the plover’s call,
A spare old man went hobbling by
With a broken pipe and a tapping stick,
And he mumbled—“Blossom before I die,
Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick.
“I ’ve weathered the world for a count of years—
Good old years of shining fire—
And death and the devil bring no fears,
And I ’ve fed the flame of my last desire;
I ’m ready to go, but I ’d pass the gate
On the edge of the world with an old heart sick
If I missed the blossoms. I may not wait—
The gate is open—be quick, be quick.”