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| 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. | |
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| Her apples were swart blackberries, | 5 |
| Her currants pods o’ broom; | |
| Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, | |
| Her book a churchyard tomb. | |
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| Her Brothers were the craggy hills, | |
| Her Sisters larchen trees— | 10 |
| Alone with her great family | |
| She lived as she did please. | |
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| No breakfast had she many a morn, | |
| No dinner many a noon, | |
| And ’stead of supper she would stare | 15 |
| Full hard against the Moon. | |
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| But every morn of woodbine fresh | |
| She made her garlanding, | |
| And every night the dark glen Yew | |
| She wove, and she would sing. | 20 |
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| And with her fingers old and brown | |
| She plaited Mats o’ Rushes, | |
| And gave them to the Cottagers | |
| She met among the Bushes. | |
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| Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen | 25 |
| 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! | 30 |
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