Old Meg she was a Gipsy
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 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!