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| O, 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 walls must be crumbled, the stones 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 |
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| Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, | |
| And a staunch 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, | |
| And he joyously twines and hugs around | |
| 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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