Old Meg, die war Zigeunerin
Und lebte tief im Moor,
Ihr Bett war brauner Heidetorf
Und ihr Haus die Luft davor.
Ihr Apfelbaum der Brombeerstrauch,
Der Ginster Beerenhain,
Ihr Wein war Heckenrosentau,
Ihr Buch ein Grabmalstein.
Wie Brüder sah sie schroffe Höhn,
Wie Schwestern Lärchen an —
Sie lebte, wie es ihr gefiel,
Allein mit ihrem Clan.
Wie oft hat sie kein Mahl in der Früh
Und nichts zum Mittag belohnt,
Und oft war noch ihr Abendbrot
Ein Starren in den Mond.
Doch stets war morgens frisch ein Kranz
Aus Geißblatt um ihr Haupt,
Und stets flocht nachts sie mit Gesang
Der Schluchten Eibenlaub.
Und braun und alt war ihre Hand,
Die Binsenmatten webte
Und an das Häuslervolk vergab,
Das in den Wäldern lebte.
Old Meg war amazonengroß,
Besaß Queen Margarets Mut,
Sie trug ein altes rotes Cape
Und einen Bastschlapphut.
Schon lang liegt ihr Gebein im Grund —
Gib Gott, daß es dort ruht!
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Original Version
Original Version
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!
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!
John Keats (1795 - 1821), englischer Dichter
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