On his armèd leaf reposes

The berries tinged like roses;
For he's ever seen in red and green,

While grim old Winter dozes.

hen drink to the holly berry,
With hey down, hey down derry;
The mistletoe we 'll pledge also,
And at Christmas all be merry.

Above all cold affections,

Like pleasant recollections,
The ivy grows, and a deep veil throws
O'er all Time's imperfections;
The mould'ring column screening,
The naked gateway greening,

While the falling shrine it doth entwine
Like a heart that 's homeward leaning.
Then drink, &c.

We read in ancient story,

How the Druids in their glory

Marched forth of old, with hooks of gold,

To forests dim and hoary;

The giant oak ascended,

Then from its branches rended

The mistletoe, long long ago,

By maidens fair attended.

Then drink, &c.

Each thorpe and grange surrounding,
The waits to music bounding,

Aroused the cook, that her fire might smoke

Ere the early cock was sounding.

THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY.

For all the land was merry,

And rang with "Hey down derry,"
While in castle hall, and cottage small,
There glittered the holly berry.
Then drink, &c.

THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY.

ELIZA COOK.

THE holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay-
Come give the holly a song;

For it helps to drive stern winter away,

With his garment so sombre and long ;
It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,
And its leaves of burnished green,

When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,
And not even the daisy is seen.

Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,

That hangs over peasant and king;

While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glitt'ring boughs, To the Christmas holly we 'll sing.

The gale may whistle, the frost may come
To fetter the gurgling rill;

The woods may be bare, and warblers dumb,
But holly is beautiful still.

In the revel and light of princely halls

The bright holly branch is found;

And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls,

While the brimming horn goes round.

Then drink to the holly, &c.

The ivy lives long, but its home must be
Where graves and ruins are spread:
There's beauty about the cypress tree,
But it flourishes near the dead;
The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe,
But it tells of tears and blood;

I sing the holly, and who can breathe

Aught of that that is not good?

Then sing to the holly, &c.

THE MISTLETOE.

(From "Fraser's Magazine," 1835.)

Of all the nights within the year,
Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

That's the night to lovers dear,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

When blushing lips, that smile at folly,
As red as berries on the holly,

Kiss, and banish melancholy.

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Ice was glittering on the farm,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Woman's heart was beating warm,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

And woman's eyes, when frost is near,
And chilly drooping snows appear,
Can make the sunny time of year.
Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Roger Rood the fiddle played,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

THE MISTLETOE.

Mary at his elbow stayed,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

And, oh! we saw by each fond look,
And how his trembling quavers shook,
Her beauty was his music book.
Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Much he tuned and much he sung,
Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Mary still about him hung,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Till, taking courage, he advanced,

And struck a jig; then how we danced!
But Mary for his partner chanced.

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Mary tripped with panting breath,
Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Till the magic bough beneath,
Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Then she feigned undone her shoe,
But the swain her mischief knew,
And seized a kiss-it might be two.
Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Then the kissing time begun,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

Men looked shy, and lasses fun,

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

But honest men, whom girls believe,

Throughout the year would sigh and grieve,
Did they not kiss on Christmas-eve.

Oh, oh, the mistletoe!

189

BARRY CORNWALL.

WHEN winter nights grow long,

And winds without blow cold,

We sit in a ring round the warm wood fire,

And listen to stories old!

And we try to look grave (as maids should be),
When the men bring in boughs of the laurel tree.
O, the laurel, the evergreen tree,

The poets have laurels, and why not we?

How pleasant, when night falls down,

And hides the wintry sun,

To see them come in to the blazing fire,
And know that their work is done;

Whilst many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme,
Green branches of holly for Christmas time.
O, the holly, the bright green holly!

It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly!

Sometimes-(in our grave house

Observe, this happeneth not;)

But at times the evergreen laurel boughs,

And the holly are all forgot,

And then-what then? why, the men laugh low,
And hang up a branch ofthe mistletoe!

Oh, brave is the laurel! and brave is the holly,
But the mistletoe banisheth melancholy!

Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know,
What is done under the mistletoe.