| The mistletoe bough in the olden time
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| Was honoured in many a sacred rhyme
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| By bards and by singers of high degree
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| When cut from its place on the old oak tree
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| By white-robed Druid with golden knife
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| For they thought it a magical Tree of Life
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| And many a promise and holy vow
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| They were solemnly sworn on the mistletoe bough
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| The mistletoe bough in the Norseman’s lay
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| Told ever of horrors, and love’s dismay
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| When the old blind god, by a sportive blow
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| Laid Balder, the beautiful sun god, low
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| Thenceforth it was deemed an accursed thing
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| But love out of sorrow could victory bring
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| And the tears of Freja are shining now
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| Like the orient, pearls on the mistletoe bough
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| The mistletoe bough on the festive throng
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| Looks down amid echoes of mirthful song
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| Where hearts they make music, as old friends meet
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| Whose pulse keeps the time to the dancer’s feet
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| And eyes they are brighter with looks of love
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| Than gems outshining the lamps up above
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| And who is she that will not allow
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| A kiss that’s claimed under the mistletoe bough?
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| From the regions of the east
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| There came a strong and handsome beast
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| Slow indeed his paces are
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| None with donkey can compare
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| For the load that he will bear
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| Hail, Sir Donkey, hail |