Song to a Serenader in February

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.