A Bunch of Forget-Me-Nots.

Forget me not !— It is the cry of clay1
From infancy to age, from ripe to rotten ;2
For who, “ to dumb forgetfulness a prey,”3
Would be forgotten ?4
Hark! the poor infant, in the age of pap,5
A little Laplander on nurse’s lap,6
Some strange neglectful gossiping old Trot,7
Meanwhile on dull Oblivion’s lap she lieth,8
In her shrill Baby-lonish language crieth9
What ?—10
Forget me not !”11
The school-boy writes unto the self same tune12
The yearly letter, guiltless of a blot,13
We break up on the twenty-third of June ;”14
And then, with Comps. from Doctor Polyglott,15
P.S. Forget me not !”16
When last my elder brother sail’d for Quito,17
My chalky foot had in a hobble got18
Why did he plant his timber toe on my toe ?19
To stamp on Memory’s most tender spot20
Forget me not !”21
The dying nabob, on whose shrivell’d skin22
The Indian “ Mulliga” has left its “ tawny,”23
Leaving life’s pilgrimage so rough and thorny,24
Bindeth his kin25
Two tons of sculptured marble to allot,26
A small “ Forget me not.”27
The hardy sailor parting from his wives,28
Sharing amongst them all that he has got,29
Keeps a fond eye upon their after-lives,30
And says to seventeen—“ If I am shot,31
Forget me not.”32
A past, past tense33
In fact is sought for by all human kind,34
And hence35
One common Irish wish—to leave ourselves behind !36
Why, all the mob of authors that now trouble37
The world with cold-press’d volumes and with hot,38
They all are seeking reputation’s bubble39
Hopelessly hoping, like Sir Walter Scott,40
To tie in Fame’s own handkerchief a double41
Forget me not—it is the common chorus,43
Swell’d by all those behind us and before us ;44
Each fifth of each November45
Calls out “ Remember ;”46
And even a poor man of straw will try47
To live by dint of powder and of plot.48
In short, it is the cry of every guy,49
“ Forget me not !”50