Christmas

by Unknown

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.

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