From Round the Still Earth, a cycle of winter songs.
The holly bereth berries
Berries red y-now.
The thistlecock, the popingay
Dance in every bough.
Welaway sory ivy
What fowless hast thou
But the sorry howlet
That singeth 'How how'.
The ivy bereth beris
Black as any sloe,
Where commeth the woode colver
And fedeth her of tho.
She lifteth up her taill
And cakkes or she go
She wold not for a hundred pounds
Serve holly so.
Holly with his merry men
They can dance in hall;
Ivy and her gentle women
Can not dance at all.
But like a mein of bulokes
In a waterfall
Or a hot sommers day
When they be mad all.
Nay, nay, ivy
It may not be
For holly must have mastry
As the manner is.
(15th Century Medieval Lyric)
