FORGET-ME-NOT. 
91 
SONG OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
How many bright flowers now around me aio glancing, 
Each seeking its praise, or its beauty enhancing ! 
The rose-buds are hanging like gems in the air, 
And the lily-bell waves in her fragrance there. 
Alas ! I can claim neither fortune nor power, 
Neither beauty nor fragrance are cast in my lot; 
Rut contented I cling to my lowly bower, 
And smile while 1 whisper— Forget-me-not! 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
I culled each flow’ret for my fair, 
The wild thyme and the heather bell ; 
And round them twined a tendril rare— 
She said the posy pleased her well. 
But of the flowers that deck the field, 
Or grace the garden of the cot, 
Though others richer perfumes yield, 
• The sweetest is forget-me-not. 
We roamed the mead, we climbed the hill, 
We rambled o’er the breckan brae ; 
The trees that crowned the mossy rill, 
They screened us from the glare of day. 
She said she loved the sylvan bower, 
Was charmed with ev’ry rural spot; 
And when arrived the parting hour, 
Her last words were “ forget-me-not! ” 
