Love is like the wild rose-brier;
⁠Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-brier blooms,
⁠But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-brier is sweet in spring,
⁠Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
⁠And who will call the wild-brier 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.