HOLL y. 
THE HOLLY. 
ELIZA COOK. 
The holly ! the holly ! oh, twine it with the bay— 
Come, give the holly a song ; 
For it helps to drive stern Winter away, 
With his garments 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 glittering bough 
To the Christmas holly we’ll sing. 
The gale may whistle, and frost may come 
To fetter the gurgling rill • 
The woods may be bare and the warblers dumb— 
But the 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—falls ' 
While the brimming horn goes round. 
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 fears and blood. 
I sing the holly—and who can breathe 
Aught of that that is not good ? 
