Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends

Name: Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends
Author: Keats, John

Keats, John

Keats, John, 1795-1821 -- Correspondence; Poets, English -- 19th century -- Correspondence

And with her fingers old and brown
    She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
  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!

If you like these sort of Ballads I will now and then scribble one for
you--if I send any to Tom I'll tell him to send them to you.


[Kirkcudbright, evening of same day, July 2.]

I have so many interruptions that I cannot manage to fill a Letter in one
day--since I scribbled the song we have walked through a beautiful Country
to Kirkcudbright--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 followed 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
      'Twas his trade
    Of Fish a pretty Kettle
      A Kettle--
      A Kettle
    Of Fish a pretty Kettle
      A Kettle!

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

Letters of John Keats to His Family and FriendsKeats, John

General

Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends

Keats, John

Keats, John, 1795-1821 -- Correspondence; Poets, English -- 19th century -- Correspondence

And with her fingers old and brown
    She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
  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!

If you like these sort of Ballads I will now and then scribble one for
you--if I send any to Tom I'll tell him to send them to you.


[Kirkcudbright, evening of same day, July 2.]

I have so many interruptions that I cannot manage to fill a Letter in one
day--since I scribbled the song we have walked through a beautiful Country
to Kirkcudbright--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 followed 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
      'Twas his trade
    Of Fish a pretty Kettle
      A Kettle--
      A Kettle
    Of Fish a pretty Kettle
      A Kettle!

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends

Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends

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