104 WITH HERBS AND FLOWERS 



tears; the Symbol of the Rose, the passion of 

 uplifted hearts and of hearts on fire. 



FIONA MACLEOD. 



THE IVY GREEN 



O, A dainty plant is the ivy green, 



That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 

 Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 



In his cell so lone and cold. 

 The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, 



To pleasure his dainty whim ; 

 And the mouldering dust that years have made 



Is a merry meal for him. 



Creeping where no life is seen, 

 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 



Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 



And a stanch old heart has he ! 

 How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 



To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! 

 And slyly he traileth along the ground, 



And his leaves he gently waves, 

 And he joyously tw r ines and hugs around 



The rich mould of dead men's graves. 

 Creeping where no life is seen, 

 A rare old plant is the ivy green. 



Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 



And nations scattered been ; 

 But the stout old ivy shall never fade 



From its hale and hearty green. 



