Old Meg she was a gypsy,
She lived upon the moors,
She had a dozen children
'Cos she never wore no drawers.
She'd sell you lucky heather
With a halitotic wheeze,
While her kids were in your garden,
A-harvesting your peas.
She'd say she'd tell your fortune,
Saying you'd a lucky face,
While the kids snuck in the parlour,
A-ransacking the place.
Perhaps you'd call her traveller,
Or didecoi or kahir,
But one thing sure was obvious,
To wash she'd not aspire.
Though Meg and brats are long since gone,
There's plenty of her ilk,
But now they steal your alloy wheels,
Instead of bread and milk.
Keats' original dirge can be found at
http://www.darsie.net/library/keats.html
Last updated: Thu, 16 Nov 2000.