Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree —The holly is dark when the rose-briar
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy
He may still leave thy garland green.
