SAINT VALENTINE.
Des Oiseaux.
Sweet Valentine, thy praise is heard
In ev'ry grove so green, oh!
And thousand birds press on to join
The Concert Valentino.
There's not an oak, or ash, or elm,
But some fond couple bears;
The very apple-tree itself
Is cover'd o'er with pairs.
And though the groves are bare of leaf,
As far as eyes can reach;
And not a bough one bud can boast,
They've lots of flow'rs—of speech.
There's young Jack Daw, and young Mac Caw,
And Phil O'Mel (though late),
Each pressing on his am'rous suit,
With all his feather weight.
The beaux so very pert are grown,
That, when their lady wills,
Like oppositionist M.P.'s,
They wont withdraw their bills.
There's Mister Ostrich 'mong the belles
Is quite a forward chap,
Which, Ostrich-like, he seems to think
A feather in his cap.
Miss Pelican declares her beau
Is got beyond endurance;
And wonders at—she really does—
His Pelican Assurance.
Miss Pigeon's trying to look shy,
He's calling her "crosspatch!"
But, though a Pouter now she seems,
'Twill be a Pigeon match.
The Peacock leads his belle along,
And presses her to wed;
And now he gives his lips a feast,
Then gives his tail a spread.
Each fowl has got some pretty gift
Beneath his am'rous wing:
Some offer wreaths of orange flow'r;
The Dove has brought his ring.
There's not a birdie, young or old,
But feels that love has caught her:
The Eagle wants a little sun,
The Daw a little Daw-ter.
It's no use feigning this and that,
For little Love, ifegs!
Is firm, and makes each lady bird
Confess that "eggs is eggs."
List to the loves of Lisson-grove,
From robin, lark, and linnet;
While busses from the Nightingale
Are passing ev'ry minute.
The very bosom of the deep
Seems under love's soft sway;
And flocks of water-fowl are seen
Indulging their fowl play.
There's rev'rend Rook, and Daw, his clerk,
Sitting with well-stuff'd craws,
Read to lend a helping hand
To forward the good caws.
Each bird a poet now becomes,
And sings some sad refrain:
The Yellow-hammer ev'n has got
His yellow-ham'rous strain.
Some try to shine in repartee,
Who can't be smart in ditty;
The very Peewit on the heath
Turns all at once peewit-y.
I know not if the birds have part
In our new marriage laws;
But if they've not, it's clear they ought
To have their special claws.
In faithfulness they beat us far;
For, spite of all their freaks,
You never see the feather'd tribe
Going before their beaks.
So fare-you-well, fair ladies all;
I hope, before next spring,
Throughout the land you'll set the bells
All of a wedding ring.
Alderman Armour.