80 THE IVY-BUSH. 
From the distant town through frost and snow 
To the woods of Winter-burn they go ; 
And if care were killed by an ivy-bough, 
What a killer of care, old tree, wert thou! 
And high in the hall, with laughter merry, 
They hang thy twigs with their powdered berry; 
And the red-gemmed holly they mix also, 
With the spectral branches of misseltoe. 
Rare old tree! and the cottage small 
Is decked as well as the baron’s hall, 
For the children’s hands are busy and fain 
To dress up the little window-pane, 
And set in the chinks of the roof-tree wood 
The holly and ivy, green and good. 
"Twere well for us, thou rare old tree, 
Could we gladden the human heart like thee; 
Like thee and the holly, that thus make gay 
The lowliest cot for a winter’s day ! 
