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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.
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!
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