In the village of Picking's Pool
Lived Theobald, the village fool;
He had been simple from his birth
But kindly as the simple earth,
And in his heart he sang a song
Of "Ave, Mary" all day long.
On Good Friday the people came
To honour the rood of Christ His shame;
They scattered flowers and leaves and moss
About the foot of the humble cross
And, when they knelt and prayed and wailed,
Theobald saw the Mother, veiled
And bowed in a mother's agony.
"She suffers more than the Christ," said he.
Theobald searched the fields and lanes
To find a solace for MARY'S pains;
All the flowers were plucked and gone
Save a little dull Parsley, sere and wan;
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.
* * * * *