SONG TO A SERENADER IN FEBRUARY. Air—“Why hast thou taught me to love thee?”

Dear minstrel, the dangers are not to be told Of those strains which have trebly undone me,— A victim to pity, to love, and to cold, I’ll be dead by the time thou hast won me! Oh! think for a moment—whoever thou art, On the woes that beset me together,— If thou wilt not consider the state of my heart, Oh! think of the state of the weather. How keenly around me the night breezes blow,— How sweetly thy parting note lingers,— Ah! would that the glow of my heart could bestow A share of its warmth to—my fingers! But though she who would watch while the nightingales sing Should scorn to let cold overcome her,— Though, like other sweet birds, you begin in the Spring, I can’t fall in love till the Summer.