Coming soon..........
A Poem by Keats, which is not garbled, but an old favourite,
of my garbled mind!
Meg Merrilies.
Old Meg she was a gypsy;
And lived upon the moors;
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her home 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 a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And instead 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
An old red blanket cloak she wore,
A chip hat had she on,
Her heaven the woody streams,
Where she did sing her song.
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