Meg Merrilies
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants, pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a church-yard tomb.
Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees;
Alone with her great family,
She liv'd as
Oftentimes, it takes us buckets of tears, sweat and (literally) blood before we achieve what we want in life. But so long as it means waking up the next day to a morning as majestic and picturesque as this, I would not mind fighting till I shed the last b