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 3 and ballanced himself as well as he could saying with his nose right in Mr. Brown's face "Doyo-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,

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-tomorrow at Portpatrick and the next day we shall cross in the passage boat to Ireland. I hope Miss Abbey has

quite recovered.

and Mrs. Abbey.

Present my Respects to her and to Mr.
God bless you.

Your affectionate Brother,

JOHN.

Do write me a Letter directed to Inverness, Scotland.

LVIII. TO THOMAS KEATS.

Auchtercairn [for Auchencairn,] 3rd [for 2d] July 1818. My dear Tom-We are now in Meg Merrilies's country, and have this morning passed through some parts exactly suited to her. Kirkcudbright County is very beautiful, very wild, with craggy hills, somewhat in the Westmoreland fashion. We have come down from Dumfries to the sea-coast part of it. The following song you will have from Dilke, but perhaps you would like it here.1

I am

[Newton Stewart,] July 5th [for 4th]. Yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright, the country is very rich, very fine, and with a little of Devon. now writing at Newton Stewart, six miles into Wigtown. Our landlady of yesterday said very few southerners passed hereaways. The children jabber away, as if in a foreign language; the bare-footed girls look very much in keeping, I mean with the scenery about them. Brown praises their cleanliness and appearance of comfort, the neatness of their cottages, etc.-it may be-they are very squat among trees and fern and heath and broom, on levels slopes and heights-but I wish they were as snug as those up the Devonshire valleys. We are lodged and entertained in great varieties. We dined yesterday on dirty Bacon, dirtier eggs, and dirtiest potatoes, with a slice of salmon-we breakfast this morning in a nice carpeted room, with sofa, hair-bottomed Chairs, and green-baized Mahogany. A spring by the road-side is always welcome: we drink water for dinner, diluted with a Gill of whisky.

1 Keats here repeats for his brother the Meg Merrilies piece contained in the preceding letter to Fanny.