LEST I FORGET
WHEN from my earliest abode in boyhood’s merry days I strode,
Oh, well do I remember how my mother came—I see her now—
And, standing in the old front door, repeated to me o’er and o’er:
“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and William, wear your other hat.
Please, William, don’t forget my note, and William, wear your overcoat.
And William, hurry on your way, or you’ll be late to school today.”
And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear
Came floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.
When from my lessons, shirked or done, came homeward I at waning sun,
Oh, well do I remember how my mother came—I see her now—
And greeted me at that front door with admonitions o’er and o’er:
“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and wipe your feet upon the mat,
And do not slam the door and wake the baby, William, and please take
This package down to Howe and Hatch and tell them that it doesn’t match,
And don’t forget to hurry back, because the kitchen fire is slack”;
And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear
Come floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.
I’m married now—at man’s estate, and yet, quite mournful to relate,
My wife it is who, as before, comes with me to the new front door,
And standing there, bombards me for a block or two, and o’er and o’er:
“Oh, William, don’t you wet your feet, and William, don’t forget the meat,
And William, don’t forget to mail my letter promptly, and don’t fail
To pay the ice bill, order wood; and William, would you be so good
As to stop in at Jones’s store and get a bit of ribbon for
The baby’s hair?”—and so ’tis yet—lest I forget—lest I forget!
ECHO OF A SONG
TO my fancy, idly roaming, comes a picture of the gloaming,
Comes a fragrance from the blossoms of the lilac and the rose;
With the yellow lamplight streaming I am sitting here and dreaming
Of a half-forgotten twilight whence a mellow memory flows;
To my listening ears come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,
I’ve a sense of sweet contentment as the sounds are borne along;
’Tis a mother who is tuning her fond heart to love and crooning
To her laddie such a
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.
Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and ember
The old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow;
With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender,
Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago.
There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roaming
Through the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along;
Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleeping
When she sings to him that
Sleepy little,
Creepy little,
Song.