Shamrocks :: :: University of Virginia Library

The holly and ivy let us bring,
And weave it with the thorn,
To make a crown for the greatest King
That ever yet was born.
The snow's a-flower in the garden bed,
The frost is in the tree,
But holly hath his berries red,
And ivy's green to see;
And pluck the Christmas roses bright
And the pagan mistletoe;
For the fairest Babe is born to-night
The world shall ever know.

There's many a one is wending by
To see the new King's face,
To kiss His hand for fealty,
To pray, “Long live His Grace!”

151

Lo! country lads that keep the sheep
Upon yon bleak hillside;
The sheep are following half asleep,
The dog walks wondering-eyed:
And these are kings, but lesser far
Than Him we go to see;
And yon's a great and flaming star
That travels fast as we.

So fare we to the palace door
That standeth open wide;
The snows drift on the earthen floor,
The night-wind wails inside.
Are kings in Jewry and in Rome
That sleep in beds of gold,
With ermine like the white sea-foam
To wrap them from the cold;
But oh! what manner of king is this
That keeps such state forlorn?
The King of the Poor the new King is,
And in a stable born.

Oh! this is but a lowly Child,
Though beautiful to see;

152

And here is but His mother mild,
Who rocks Him on her knee;
And here is but a grey-beard man,
And ass and oxen by.
King Babe, no taller than a span,
Accept our fealty:
We bring Thee here a Christmas wreath;
Some day the thorns shall be
A crown to crown Thee for Thy death
Upon the shameful tree.