Meg Merrilies by John Keats
8:01 PM


Old Meg she was a Gypsy
And lived upon the Moors:
Her bed was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants 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 lived as she did please.

No breakfast had she many 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 plated mats o' rushes,
And she 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 she had on.

God rest her aged bones somewhere,
She died full long agone.

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Шеќернолимонова
tea with sugar gives me the cramps