Front matter

A BUNCH of Christmas Roses, dear, To greet my fairest child, I plucked them in my garden where The drifting snow lay piled.

I cannot bring thee violets dear, Or cowslips growing wild, Or daisy chain for thee to wear, For thee to wear, my child.

For all the grassy meadows near Are clad with snow, my child; Through all the days of winter drear No ray of sun has smiled.

I plucked this bunch of verses, dear, From out my garden wild, I plucked them in the winter drear For you, my fairest child, Your wet and wintry hours to cheer, They’re Christmas Roses, child.