Mystical, magical mistletoe,
Sweet succour to the mistle thrush,
That which you are I do not know,
No evidence of tree or bush.
Joined fast together, two green leaves,
Tied down at source with silver pearls,
Entwining stems, your magic weaves
A spell of love o’er boys and girls.
From mother tree, your twisting boughs
An every-growing sphere do make,
When harvested, held over brows,
Young yuletide folk their pleasures take.
Some linger on with special love,
While some deceive with silver tongue.
They kiss and tell or try to prove
Another’s love will not last long.
From time gone by your powers are known,
To heal or kill the tale is heard.
Your seeds in realms above are sown,
Enchanting all through singing bird.