And Theobald wreathed it in simple guise;
"It mourns like her," said the Fool made wise.
When Holy Saturday morning broke
Back to the shrine went the village folk;
And lo! on the weeping Mother's brow
A chaplet of flowers was gleaming now;
And Theobald smiled secretly
To think he had soothed her agony.
And ever since Theobald crowned his Queen
Fool's Parsley has flowered amongst its green.