  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? |
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