THE COTSWOLD FARMERS

Sometimes the ghosts forgotten go

Along the hill-top way,

And with long scythes of silver mow

Meadows of moonlit hay,

Until the cocks of Cotswold crow

The coming of the day.

There’ s Tony Turkletob who died

When he could drink no more,

And Uncle Heritage, the pride

Of eighteen-twenty-four,

And Ebenezer Barleytide,

And others half a score.

They fold in phantom pens, and plough

Furrows without a share,

And one will milk a faery cow,

And one will stare and stare,

And whistle ghostly tunes that now

Are not sung anywhere.

The moon goes down on Oakridge lea,

The other world’ s astir,

The Cotswold farmers silently

Go back to sepulchre,

The sleeping watchdogs wake, and see

No ghostly harvester.