There once was a Willow, and he was very old,
And all his leaves fell off from him, and left him in the cold;
But ere the rude winter could buffet him with snow,
There grew upon his hoary head a crop of mistletoe.

All wrinkled and furrowed was this old Willow's skin,
His taper fingers trembled, and his arms were very thin;
Two round eyes and hollow, that stared but did not see,
And sprawling feet that never walked, had this most ancient tree.

A dame who dwelt near was the only one who knew
That every year upon his head the Christmas berries grew;
And when the dame cut them, she said — it was her whim —
" A merry Christmas to you, sir!" and left a bit for him .

" Oh, Granny dear, tell us," the children cried, " where we
May find the shining mistletoe that grows upon the tree?"
At length the dame told them, but cautioned them to mind
To greet the Willow civilly, and leave a bit behind .

" Who cares," said the children, " for this old Willow-man?
We'll take the mistletoe, and he may catch us if he can."
With rage the ancient Willow shakes in every limb,
For they have taken all, and have not left a bit for him !

Then bright gleamed the holly, the Christmas berries shone,
But in the wintry wind without the Willow-man did moan:
" Ungrateful, and wasteful! the mystic mistletoe
A hundred years hath grown on me, but never more shall grow."

A year soon passed by, and the children came once more,
But not a spring of mistletoe the aged Willow bore.
Each slender spray pointed; he mocked them in his glee,
And chuckled in his wooden heart, that ancient Willow tree.