While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,
  To the Christmas holly we'll sing.

The gale may whistle, the frost may come
  To fetter the gurgling rill;
The woods may be bare, and warblers dumb,
  But holly is beautiful still.
In the revel and light of princely halls
  The bright holly branch is found;
And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls,
  While the brimming horn goes round.

The ivy lives long, but its home must be
  Where graves and ruins are spread;
There's beauty about the cypress tree,
  But it flourishes near the dead;
The laurel the warrior's brow may wreathe,
  But it tells of tears and blood;
I sing the holly, and who can breathe
  Aught of that that is not good?
Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,
  That hangs over peasant and king;
While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs,
  To the Christmas holly we'll sing.