Monday, January 14, 2013
Meg Merrilies by John Keats (1795 - 1821)
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors,
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
Her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currents, 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!