| 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,
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| 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,
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| And the playing of the merry organ,
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| 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,
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| 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. |