There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

For nothing would he do

But scribble poetry-

He took

An ink stand

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!