Classic Poem

Nay! nay! Ivy,
It may not be, iwis:
For Holy must have the mastry,
As the maner is.

Holy bereth beris,
Beris rede inough:
The thristilcok, the popingay
Daunce in every bough.
Welaway! sory Ivy,
What fowles hast thou?
But the sory owlet,
That singeth " How! how!"

Ivy bereth beris
As black as any slo:
Ther commeth the woode-colver
And fedeth her of tho.
She lifteth up her taill,
And she cackes or she go:
She wold not for a hundred poundes
Serve Holy so.

Holy with his mery men
They can daunce in hall:
Ivy and her gentil women
Cannot daunce at all,
But like a meiny of bullockes
In a waterfall,
Or on a hot somer's day
Whan they be mad all.
Holy and his mery men
Sitt in cheires of gold:
Ivy and her gentil women
Sitt without in fold,
With a paire of kibed
Heles caught with cold —
So wold I that every man had
That with Ivy will hold!