Scatter blessings on your way.
Oh, gentle lady, list the lay
that thus I sing to you—
A ballad of St. Valentine,
And youthful lovers true—
And as you list—remember, Sweet,
True love’s worth more than gold,
And Constancy’s the fashion still,
As in the days of old.
The February morn was chill,
Though Spring was drawing near,
And violets made haste to greet,
The young days of the year:
A blithesome traveller came by—
“Ah, why so sad”?—quoth he—
“Come, tell me, hath thy maiden fair,
This morning frowned on thee”?
“Aye sir”—the shepherd lad replied,
“My love hath said me nay—
I’ve loved her well, and loved but her,
A long year and a day.”
“Up heart, lad” spoke the traveller,
“My name is Valentine,”
And I’ve a charm to move the heart,
Of that cold maid of thine.
From ‘neath yon beechen tree,
Then from their petals kiss the dew,
And trust your cause to me.”
One time upon a grassy bank
Where moss grew soft and green,
Reposed a comely shepherd lad,
Of sad and mournful mien.
The violets the shepherd plucked,
And kissed their petals sweet,
And Valentine—that blithesome Saint,
Sped off on willing feet—
Her cows to pastures new,
And softly ‘gainst her eyes and lips
The violets he threw.
Then love within her heart awoke,
And by her hand the Saint
The maiden led to where the lad,
Sighed forth his lover’s plaint;
She blushed rose-red with eyes cast down—
Sang Valentine the bold—
“Be true young hearts, for true love’s worth
Far more than lands, or gold”!