Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.
You do not know that millions are
This moment in a deadly war;
Millions of men whose Christmas bells
Are guns' reports and bursting shells;
Whose holly berries, made of lead,
Take human blood to stain them red;
Whose leaves are swords, and bayonets too,
To pierce their fellow-mortals through.
For now the war is here, and men -
Like cats that stretch their bodies when
The light has gone and darkness comes -
Have armed and left their peaceful homes:
But men will be, when there's no war,
As gentle as you children are.
Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.