And o'er it many a holly sprig is growing;
And scarlet berry.
A bough of evergreen, with wax-lights gleaming,
It bravely graces;
And o'er its lines the star that's eastward beaming
Leaves golden traces.
Also, our little song; it sweetly praiseth,
Like birds in flocks
When morning from her bed of roses raiseth
Her golden locks.