Get Your Premium Membership

Meg Merrilies

 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!

Poem by John Keats
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - Meg MerriliesEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

More Poems by John Keats

Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on Meg Merrilies

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Meg Merrilies here.

Commenting turned off, sorry.

Book: Shattered Sighs