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My Valentine.
By W. M. MacKeracher
O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy,
You make my heart rejoice;
Your presence is like Arcady,
There's music in your voice;
Heaven's purity is on your brow,
Its light is in your eyne;
I love you, and I ask you now
To be my Valentine.
Your face is like the lily in
The morning's ruddy light;
Your dimpled cheeks and tiny chin
Are blessings to my sight;
Your lips are fairer than the rose
And redder far than wine;
Your teeth are whiter than the snows:
You'll be my Valentine!
You are not quite so old as I,
You've seen but summers three;
And that's no doubt the reason why
You are not coy with me.
I'll come to you to-morrow,
And on chocolates we'll dine;
And you'll have no thought of sorrow
When you are my Valentine.
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