For Though We Are Perpetually Bragging Of

The Cold Hoarfrost Glistened On The Tombstones, And Sparkled Like Rows Of Gems, Among The Stone Carvings Of The Old Church. The Snow Lay Hard And Crisp Upon The Ground; And Spread Over The Thickly-strewn Mounds Of Earth, So White And Smooth A Cover, That It Seemed As If Corpses Lay There, Hidden Only By Their Winding Sheets.

Poetry's Unnat'ral; No Man Ever Talked Poetry 'cept A Beadle On Boxin' Day, Or Warren's Blackin' Or Rowland's Oil, Or Some O' Them Low Fellows; Never You Let Yourself Down To Talk Poetry, My Boy.

There Was A Frosty Rime Upon The Trees, Which, In The Faint Light Of The Clouded Moon, Hung Upon The Smaller Branches Like Dead Garlands.

Loves And Cupids Took To Flight Afraid, And Martyrdom Had No Such Torment In Its Painted History Of Suffering.

Oh, A Dainty Plant Is The Ivy Green, That Creepeth O'er Ruins Old! Of Right Choice Food Are His Meals, I Ween, In His Cell So Lone And Cold. Creeping Where No Life Is Seen, A Rare Old Plant Is The Ivy Green.