OLD MARY TODFEATHER

After Wordsworth's The Idiot Boy

Old Mary Todfeather
Trampled the heather
Though she was rather
Under the weather
This day to gather
Bundles of heather
For her mad brother
And her sick mother
And for no other
Did she ere go there
In coat of dull mohair
Riding her brown mare
Sipping her sweet beer


Then did her mind's fare
Blot out the sun's glare
And on the night air
Came such a sight rare
A Renaissance band
On a balcony most fair
And. . .and. . .she did sing
To her mare of the spring
And how she did cry
At her halting and wistful reply.


When all was snow here
Sure it was quite queer
So see that contrite dear
Warm as a white bear
Without a slight care
Upon her brown mare
Strumming her zither
Did she come hither
When all was awither
Before she went thither
To warm her sick mother
And her mad brother
This day to gather
Bundles of heather
Under the weather
And she had rather
Tampled the heather
Old Mary Todfeather.

Max Edward Cordonnier

Begun as a children's poem sometime in the 60's, now revised