OLD Meg she was a gipsy; <br /> And liv'd upon the moors: <br />Her bed it was the brown heath turf, <br /> And her house was out of doors. <br /> <br />Her apples were swart blackberries, <br /> Her currants, pods o' broom; <br />Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, <br /> Her book a church-yard tomb. <br /> <br />Her brothers were the craggy hills, <br /> Her sisters larchen trees; <br />Alone with her great family <br /> She liv'd as she did please. <br /> <br />No breakfast had she many a morn, <br /> No dinner many a noon, <br />And 'stead of supper she would stare <br /> Full hard against the moon. <br /> <br />But every morn, of woodbine fresh <br /> She made her garlanding, <br />And every night the dark glen yew <br /> She wove, and she would sing. <br /> <br />And with her fingers old and brown <br /> She plaited mats o' rushes, <br />And gave them to the cottagers <br /> She met among the bushes. <br /> <br />Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, <br /> And tall as Amazon: <br />An old red blanket cloak she wore, <br /> A chip hat had she on. <br />God rest her aged bones somewhere--- <br /> She died full long agone!<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/meg-merrilies/
