And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes,
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere—
She died full long agone!
A Song about Myself
'I have so many interruptions,' writes Keats to his sister Fanny from Kircudbright, July 2, 1818, 'that I cannot manage to fill a Letter in one day—since I scribbled the song [Meg Merrilies] we have walked through a beautiful country to Kircudbright—at which place I will write you a song about myself.'
There was a naughty Boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be—
He took
In his Knapsack
A Book
Full of vowels;
And a shirt
With some towels—
A slight cap
For night cap—
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New Stockings,
For old ones
Would split O!
This Knapsack,
Tight at 's back,
He rivetted close
And follow'd his Nose
To the North,
To the North,
And follow'd his nose
To the North.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry—
He took
An inkstand
In his hand,
And a Pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a Pother
He ran
To the mountains,
And fountains
And ghostes,
And Postes,
And witches,
And ditches,
And wrote
In his coat,
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was Warm—
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the Maid,
Nor afraid
Of his Granny—good—
He often would,
Hurly burly,
Get up early,
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook,
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little Baby's
Little fingers—
O, he made,
'T was his trade,
Of Fish a pretty Kettle
A Kettle—
