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The Holly and the Ivy, |
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When both are full grown, |
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Of all the trees in the wood, |
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The Holly bears the crown. |
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O the rising of the sun, |
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And the running of the deer, |
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And the playing of the merry organ, |
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Sweet singing of the choir. |
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The Holly bears a blossom, |
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As white as lily flower. |
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And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, |
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To be our sweet Saviour. |
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O the rising of the sun, |
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And the running of the deer, |
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And the playing of the merry organ, |
|
Sweet singing of the choir. |
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The Holly bears a berry, |
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As red as any blood. |
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And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, |
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To do poor sinners good. |
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O the rising of the sun, |
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And the running of the deer, |
|
And the playing of the merry organ, |
|
Sweet singing in the choir. |
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The Holly bears a prickle, |
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As sharp as any thorn. |
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And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ, |
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On Christmas Day this morn. |
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O the rising of the sun, |
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And the running of the deer, |
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And the playing of the merry organ, |
|
Sweet singing in the choir. |
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Last christmas I drove home, |
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Just my sister and me. |
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200 miles from London, |
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To a small town by the sea. |
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The subtle trails of snowfall, |
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Swept round our rental van. |
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And we drifted into morning, |
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As Christmas day began. |
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And the rising of the sun, |
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And the running of the deer. |
