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II.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.

III.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,

Her Sisters larchen trees

Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.

IV.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,

And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.

V.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,

And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.

VI.

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

And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.

VII.

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!

IEATS

A SONG ABOUT MYSELF

FROM A LETTER TO FANNY KEATS

I.

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.

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!

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

So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,

He stood in his shoes

And he wonder'd.

A GALLOWAY SONG

FROM A LETTER TO TOM KEATS

AH! ken ye what I met the day
Out oure the Mountains

A coming down by craggi[e]s grey
An mossie fountains-

A[h] goud hair'd Marie yeve I pray

Ane minute's guessing

For that I met upon the way

Is past expressing.

As I stood where a rocky brig

A torrent crosses

I spied upon a misty rig

A troup o' Horses

And as they trotted down the glen
I sped to meet them

To see if I might know the Men

To stop and greet them.

First Willie on his sleek mare came

At canting gallop

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They went togither

I saw her wrappit in her hood

Fra wind and raining—

Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood

Twixt growth and waning

She turn'd her dazed head full oft
For there her Brithers

Came riding with her Bridegroom soft

And mony ithers.

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