Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree-
The holly is dark, when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
that when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.