Letters of John Keats to His Family and Friends, by John Keats

57. — To Fanny Keats.

My dear Fanny — I intended to have written to you from Kirkcudbright, the town I shall be in to-morrow — but I will write now because my Knapsack has worn my coat in the Seams, my coat has gone to the Tailor’s and I have but one Coat to my back in these parts. I must tell you how I went to Liverpool with George and our new Sister and the Gentleman my fellow traveller through the Summer and autumn — We had a tolerable journey to Liverpool — which I left the next morning before George was up for Lancaster — Then we set off from Lancaster on foot with our Knapsacks on, and have walked a Little zig-zag through the mountains and Lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland — We came from Carlisle yesterday to this place — We are employed in going up Mountains, looking at strange towns, prying into old ruins and eating very hearty breakfasts. Here we are full in the Midst of broad Scotch “How is it a’ wi’ yoursel”— the Girls are walking about bare-footed and in the worst cottages the smoke finds its way out of the door. I shall come home full of news for you and for fear I should choak you by too great a dose at once I must make you used to it by a letter or two. We have been taken for travelling Jewellers, Razor sellers and Spectacle vendors because friend Brown wears a pair. The first place we stopped at with our Knapsacks contained one Richard Bradshaw, a notorious tippler. He stood in the shape of a ℥ and ballanced himself as well as he could saying with his nose right in Mr. Brown’s face “Do — yo — u sell spect — ta — cles?” Mr. Abbey says we are Don Quixotes — tell him we are more generally taken for Pedlars. All I hope is that we may not be taken for excisemen in this whisky country. We are generally up about 5 walking before breakfast and we complete our 20 miles before dinner. — Yesterday we visited Burns’s Tomb and this morning the fine Ruins of Lincluden.

[Auchencairn, same day, July 2.]

I had done thus far when my coat came back fortified at all points — so as we lose no time we set forth again through Galloway — all very pleasant and pretty with no fatigue when one is used to it — We are in the midst of Meg Merrilies’s country of whom I suppose you have heard.

Old Meg she was a Gipsy,

And liv’d upon the Moors:

Her bed it was the brown heath turf,

And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,

Her currants pods o’ broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,

Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,

Her Sisters larchen trees —

Alone with her great family

She liv’d as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,

No dinner many a noon,

And ’stead of supper she would stare

Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh

She made her garlanding,

And every night the dark glen Yew

She wove, and she would sing.

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 followéd 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,


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!

There was a naughty Boy,

And a naughty Boy was he,

He ran away to Scotland

The people for to see —

Then he found

That the ground

Was as hard,

That a yard

Was as long,

That a song

Was as merry,

That a cherry

Was as red —

That lead

Was as weighty,

That fourscore

Was as eighty,

That a door

Was as wooden

As in England —

So he stood in his shoes

And he wonder’d

He wonder’d,

He stood in his shoes

And he wonder’d.

[Newton Stewart, July 4.]

My dear Fanny, I am ashamed of writing you such stuff, nor would I if it were not for being tired after my day’s walking, and ready to tumble into bed so fatigued that when I am asleep you might sew my nose to my great toe and trundle me round the town, like a Hoop, without waking me. Then I get so hungry a Ham goes but a very little way and fowls are like Larks to me — A Batch of Bread I make no more ado with than a sheet of parliament; and I can eat a Bull’s head as easily as I used to do Bull’s eyes. I take a whole string of Pork Sausages down as easily as a Pen’orth of Lady’s fingers. Ah dear I must soon be contented with an acre or two of oaten cake a hogshead of Milk and a Clothes-basket of Eggs morning noon and night when I get among the Highlanders. Before we see them we shall pass into Ireland and have a chat with the Paddies, and look at the Giant’s Causeway which you must have heard of — I have not time to tell you particularly for I have to send a Journal to Tom of whom you shall hear all particulars or from me when I return. Since I began this we have walked sixty miles to Newton Stewart at which place I put in this Letter — to-night we sleep at Glenluce — to-morrow at Portpatrick and the next day we shall cross in the passage boat to Ireland. I hope Miss Abbey has quite recovered. Present my Respects to her and to Mr. and Mrs. Abbey. God bless you.

Your affectionate Brother,


Do write me a Letter directed to Inverness, Scotland.


Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:56