How tender are your lips of red!
How like a rose each velvet cheek!
How bright the gold upon your head—
All this I’d say, if I could speak.
How warm your blushes come and go!
How maidenly your air and mien!
How pure the glances you bestow—
Wilt be my Valentine, O Queen?
The angels walking at your side,
Methinks have lent their charms to you,
For in the world so big and wide,
There is not one so good and true.
If I had but the gift of speech,
Your beauty and your grace to prove,
Then might I find a way to reach
Your heart, and all its wealth of love.
Then, sweetheart, take the good intent—
Truth has no need of phrases fine—
Repay what long ago I lent,
And be to-day my Valentine.
Jealous, Sweetheart?
A STEP on the walk she’s waiting to hear—
Waiting—waiting—
There’s a frown on her face—pouting ’tis clear,
Ah, someone is late in coming I fear.
All lovers are very fickle, my dear,
Waiting, waiting!
Only last week he was praising up Nell—
Praising—praising—
Saying her voice was clear as a bell,
Thinking her fairer, and who is to tell
All that he said as they walked through the dell?
Praising, praising!