The Ivy Green.Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,That creepeth o’er the ruins old;Of right choice food are his meals I ween,In his cell so lonely and cold.The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay’dTo please 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 staunch old head hath he;How closely he twineth—how tightly he clingsTo his friend, the huge oak tree!And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs, and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.Whole ages have fled, and works decay’d,And nations have scatter’d been;But the stout old ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten on the past;For the stateliest building man can raise,Is the ivy’s food at last.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,That creepeth o’er the ruins old;Of right choice food are his meals I ween,In his cell so lonely and cold.The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay’dTo please 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 staunch old head hath he;How closely he twineth—how tightly he clingsTo his friend, the huge oak tree!And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs, and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.Whole ages have fled, and works decay’d,And nations have scatter’d been;But the stout old ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten on the past;For the stateliest building man can raise,Is the ivy’s food at last.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,That creepeth o’er the ruins old;Of right choice food are his meals I ween,In his cell so lonely and cold.The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay’dTo please 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 staunch old head hath he;How closely he twineth—how tightly he clingsTo his friend, the huge oak tree!And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs, and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.Whole ages have fled, and works decay’d,And nations have scatter’d been;But the stout old ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten on the past;For the stateliest building man can raise,Is the ivy’s food at last.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,That creepeth o’er the ruins old;Of right choice food are his meals I ween,In his cell so lonely and cold.The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay’dTo please 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.
Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o’er the ruins old;
Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lonely and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay’d
To please 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 staunch old head hath he;How closely he twineth—how tightly he clingsTo his friend, the huge oak tree!And slily he traileth along the ground,And his leaves he gently waves,As he joyously hugs, and crawleth roundThe rich mould of dead men’s graves.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old head hath he;
How closely he twineth—how tightly he clings
To his friend, the huge oak tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
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 hath been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and works decay’d,And nations have scatter’d been;But the stout old ivy shall never fadeFrom its hale and hearty green.The brave old plant in its lonely daysShall fatten on the past;For the stateliest building man can raise,Is the ivy’s food at last.Creeping where grim death hath been,A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and works decay’d,
And nations have scatter’d 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 on the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the ivy’s food at last.
Creeping where grim death hath been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.