Dawlish Fair


    Over the hill and over the dale,
    And over the bourn to Dawlish,
    Where gingerbread wives have a scanty sale
    And gingerbread nuts are smallish.

    Rantipole Betty she ran down a hill
    And kicked up her petticoats fairly;
    Says I I'll be Jack if you will be Gill,
    So she sat on the grass debonairly.

    Here's somebody coming, here's somebody coming!
    Says I 'tis the wind at a parley;
    So without any fuss any hawing and humming
    She lay on the grass debonairly.

    Here's somebody here and here's somebody there!
    Says I hold your tongue you young Gipsey;
    So she held her tongue and lay plump and fair
    And dead as a Venus tipsy.

    O who wouldn't hie to Dawlish fair,
    O who wouldn't stop in a Meadow,
    O who would not rumple the daisies there
    And make the wild fern for a bed do!


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Return to the John Keats Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Dedication To Leigh Hunt, Esq.

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