IVY. 
And slily he traileth along the ground, 
And his leaves he gently waves, 
And he joyously twines 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. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days 
Shall fatten upon the past, 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the ivy’s food at last. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
IVY. 
CALDER CAMPBELL. 
Oh, falsely they accuse me, 
Who say I seek to check 
The growing sapling’s flourishing;— 
I better love to deck 
The dead and dying branches 
With all my living leaves, 
’Tis for the old and withered tree 
The Ivy garlands weaves. 
