  SAINT Valentine, Saint Valentine! I love a maid of New York town, And every day, on my homeward way, She walks the Avenue down. At five o’clock, dear Saint, she goes Tripping down Murray Hill, And the hands of the clock in the old brick spire Stand still, stand still, stand still! Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine! Oh, could you know how fair a maid— So trim of dress, and so gold of tress, I see her pass, I smile and bow, As I go up Murray Hill, And I say to a foolish hope of mine: Be still, be still, be still! Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine, Oh, could you see how close her gown Binds tight and warm about her form, This maid of New York town, You’d know a mountain would to me Be less than Murray Hill, If only around her my arm could slip, And she’d stand still, stand still. Saint Valentine, Saint Valentine! She is so fair, so rich, so great, I have no right to think what might Be this poor clerk’s estate. And yet the bells in yon brick spire, As we pass on Murray Hill, They ring, they ring—she’s not for me— And still—and still—and still— H. C. Bunner. |
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