The lane is deep, the bank is steep,
The tangled hedge is high;
And clinging, twisting, up I creep,
And climp towards the sky.
O Honeysuckle, mounting high!
O Woodbine, climbing to the sky!
The people in the lane below
Look up and see me there,
Where I my honey-trumpets blow,
Whose sweetness fills the air.
O Honeysuckle, waving there!
O Woodbine, scenting all the air!