To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,