And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Herr 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 live'd as she did please
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.
She plaited mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.
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!