The recent visits we have had from our travellers and their caravans has reminded me of a Keats poem, a favourite from childhood.
Meg Merrilies
BY JOHN KEATS
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!
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47348/meg-merrilies
The cones in the photo above are Larch cones (European larch) in honour of Meg's "sisters".
I used to worry about Meg, and how hungry she often was - always was? - as the post-war (WW2) was a hungry time, a time of food rationing. I don't mean we were deprived, we had enough, and in many ways it was probably a more healthy diet than many children in the West have now. But we were always really hungry for our meals, which were not lavish. So I could imagine her hunger.
I now wonder about how she survived, homeless, living outside, no caravan, no nothing.
Our current travellers, who are Irish Catholics, seem prosperous enough, thank goodness. Their cars, caravans and vans are all smart and new. But I am guessing that Meg was a Roma gypsy, like the little lady who used to call at my parents many years ago. They are a different people, with a different culture and customs.
She would always have a cup of tea with us in the garden, but would never come in to the house. She said that gypsies were always accused of stealing, which is why she wouldn't. And, sadly, she is right. I once worked on a building site with a lad from a gypsy background and he was accused of stealing. Yet the stealing on the site was going on before he arrived, and continued after he left, and I don't think it had anything to do with him. So it was just prejudice.
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!
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47348/meg-merrilies
The cones in the photo above are Larch cones (European larch) in honour of Meg's "sisters".
I used to worry about Meg, and how hungry she often was - always was? - as the post-war (WW2) was a hungry time, a time of food rationing. I don't mean we were deprived, we had enough, and in many ways it was probably a more healthy diet than many children in the West have now. But we were always really hungry for our meals, which were not lavish. So I could imagine her hunger.
I now wonder about how she survived, homeless, living outside, no caravan, no nothing.
Our current travellers, who are Irish Catholics, seem prosperous enough, thank goodness. Their cars, caravans and vans are all smart and new. But I am guessing that Meg was a Roma gypsy, like the little lady who used to call at my parents many years ago. They are a different people, with a different culture and customs.
She would always have a cup of tea with us in the garden, but would never come in to the house. She said that gypsies were always accused of stealing, which is why she wouldn't. And, sadly, she is right. I once worked on a building site with a lad from a gypsy background and he was accused of stealing. Yet the stealing on the site was going on before he arrived, and continued after he left, and I don't think it had anything to do with him. So it was just prejudice.
Saturday, as I start this blog, is promising to be really sunny. Apparently we are in for an incredibly hot weekend. I am hoping for a good sea breeze, but time will tell. And hopefully this blogpost will too. I am not a fan of hot summers, though I know most people love them. Spring and Autumn are my favourite seasons.
We woke up on Sunday to a sea-fret - the Channel and most of the Green had disappeared. But once the mist had gone it was a very hot day - thankfully with a lovely sea breeze here. Col said it was stifling further inland. where he was detecting with the lads.
I had a long chat with Bea on Sunday - phone chat - mainly about our mutual health issues, neither of us being young any more.
I had a long chat with Bea on Sunday - phone chat - mainly about our mutual health issues, neither of us being young any more.
John Keats re-creates Meg so vividly in the poem, that I do believe she was a real person, she did live. And if so, and if she sleeps safe in Jehovah's memory, safe in "the everlasting arms", then she will live again one day. She will be able to live on this lovely planet, but without hunger or suffering. And she will have a home. No-one will be homeless then. The Kingdom of God will do what no human government can do, provide lovingly for every one of its subjects, worldwide.
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