| |
| OH, 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 wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| |
| 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, | 15 |
| And his leaves he gently waves, | |
| As he joyously hugs and crawleth round | |
| The rich mould of dead men’s graves. | |
| Creeping where grim death has been, | |
| A rare old plant is the Ivy green. | 20 |
| |
| Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, | |
| And nations have scattered been; | |
| But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, | |
| From its hale and hearty green. | |
| The brave old plant in its lonely days, | 25 |
| Shall fatten upon the past: | |
| For the stateliest building man can raise, | |
| Is the Ivy’s food at last. | |
| Creeping on, where time has been, | |
| A rare old plant is the Ivy green. | 30 |
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