Ivy stands without the door, she is full sore a-cold.
Holly and his merry men they dancen and they sing;
Ivy and her maidens, they weepen and they wring.
Ivy hath a smooth leaf, she wraps it like a cloak
Round about the ash-tree, round about the oak.
Holly hath his berries as red as any rose.
The foresters, the hunters, they keep them fro’ the does.
Ivy hath her berries as black as any sloe.
For wayfarers a bitter wine as any they may know.
Holly hath his birds, a full faire flocke—