Under the Holly Bough

When the hale year laughed in the prime of May, And each path was a lure to the truant eye, When the south-wind sang: “Come away! Come away!” (Ah, but the blue of a vernal sky!) When the vireo’s voice was a lyric cry, ’Twas the bloom o’ the apple beckoned us; now When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why, ’Tis under the green of the holly bough! When the meadows swooned in the dazzling day, And the hilltops seemed in a dream to lie, When shrill was the locust’s roundelay, (Ah, but the glow of a summer sky!) When the stream-song sank to a rippling sigh, ’Twas the pleach o’ the elm-leaves beckoned us; now When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why, ’Tis under the green of the holly bough! When the woodland gleamed like a prismy ray, And the distance drowsed in a golden dye, When vineyard and orchard aisles were gay (Ah, but the depths of an autumn sky!) With stains like a web of Tyrian ply, ’Twas the flame o’ the maple beckoned us; now When we meet, my sweet, for the trysting, why, ’Tis under the green of the holly bough!

Spring, summer and autumn have all sped by, (Ah, but the chill of a winter sky!) Yet love still calls to the tryst, and now ’Tis under the green of the holly bough!