Hurly Buriy’s talk was mad,
Like Singlestick and Latin;
Curly Wurly a sweet tongue had,
And she was soft as satin.
Then Hurly Burly and Curly Wurly,
When they had their airing,
Came home betimes, like a poet’s rhymes,
Each of them with a fairing.
For he had a monstrous popgun got,
That went with a noise like thunder;
And she had a beautiful true-love knot,
That never would come in sunder.
XX
Nathan Nobb,
Oh, what a job!
Always walked on his head;
His mother would sob
To his brother Bob,
And his father took to his bed.
They made him a boot
His head to suit,
But a horrible thing must be said,—
His hair took root,
And began to shoot,
One day, in the garden bed!
So there he stands
With the help of his hands
And a little support from his nose:
The gardener man,
With the watering-can,
Says, “Gracious, how fast he grows!”