Meg Merrilies

A postcard with this poem on fell out of something when I was sorting through some stuff. I think I bought it when I visited the Museum of Witchcraft in Boscastle a few years ago.

Meg Merrilies

Old Meg she was a gipsey;

And liv'd upon the Moors:

Her bed it 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 church-yard 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;

And old red blanket cloak she wore,

A chip hat had she on,

God rest her aged bones somewhere....

She died full long agone.

John Keats

Arilx