A Song about Myself.

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.

2.

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE POEMS.

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!

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3.

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!

384 POSTHUMOUS AND FUGITIVE POEMS.

4.

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,

- I

St

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ft

SONNET.

TO AILSA ROCK.

HEARKEN, thou craggy ocean pyramid!

Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams! When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams? When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid? How long is't since the mighty power bid

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,
Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid.
Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep;
Thy life is but two dead eternities—

The last in air, the former in the deep;

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skiesDrown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep, Another cannot wake thy giant size.

SONNET.

Written in the Cottage where Burns was born.

THIS mortal body of a thousand days

Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
My pulse is warm with thine own Barley-bree,
My head is light with pledging a great soul,
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;

CC