So St. Valentine came on his journey alone In the coach of the Morn, for he'd none of his own, And put on his cassock and band, and went in To the temple of Hymen, the rites to begin, Where the Mavis Thrush waited along with his bride, Nor in the whole place was a lady beside. The gentlemen they came alone to the saint, And instead of being married, each made a complaint Of Sir Winter, whose folly had caused the delay, And forced Love to put off the wedding till May; So the priest shook his head, and unrobed to be gone, As he had no day for his leisure but one. And when the May came with Miss Flora and Spring, They had nought but old cares and new sorrows to sing; For some of the lady birds ceased to be kind To their old loves, and changed for new-comers their mind; And some had resolved to keep single that year, Until St. Valentine with the next should appear. The birds sung their sorrows the whole Summer long, And the Robin first mixed up his ills with his song: He sung of his griefs--how in love he'd been crossed, And gave up his heart as eternally lost; 'T was burnt to a coal, as sly Cupid let fall A spark that scorched through both the feathers and all. To cure it Time tried, but ne'er found out the way, So the mark on his bosom he wears to this day: And when birds are all silent, and not a leaf seen On the trees, but the ivy and holly so green, In frost and in snow little Robin will sing, To put off the sorrow that ruffles his wing. And that is the cause in our gardens we hear The Robin's sweet note at the close of the year. The Wagtail, too, mourned in his doublet of grey, As if powdered with rime on a dull winter's day; He twittered of love--how he courted a fair, Who altered her mind, and so made him despair. In a stone-pit he chose her a place for a nest, But she, like a wanton, but made it a jest. Though he dabbled in brooks to convince her how kind He would feed her with worms which he laboured to find, Till he e'en got the ague, still nought could prevail, So ever since then he's been wagging his tail. In the whitethorn the Linnet bides lonely to sing How his lady-love shunned his embraces in Spring, Though he found out a bush that the sun had half drest With leaves quite sufficient to shelter their nest; And yet she forsook him, no more to be seen, So that is the reason he dresses in green. Then aloud in his grief sings the gay speckled Thrush, That changes his music on every bush-- "My love she has left me to sorrow and mourn, Yet I hope in my heart she'll repent and return;" So he tries at all notes her approval to meet, And that is the reason he singeth so sweet.