Robert Peter wrote these lines on March 23, 1838, on leaving London for Jamaica. Christopher Adams named Peter one of the worst English poets, presumably for the immortal last line.

O! wherefore pensive heaves that sigh?
Why is thy face o’ercast with sorrow?
Thy throbbing bosom heaving high;
And wherefore should thy grief-dimmed eye
That tint of melancholy borrow?

‘Tis thus with me; I cherish dear
Each fond memorial of affection;
My heart the impress still shall wear —
Though fate doth now asunder tear
Those ties, the cause of my dejection.

For soon the dark, deep, rolling waves
Of wild Atlantic shall us sever;
And while around me ocean raves,
Still warm remembrance friendship craves;
Thee, M.M. Woods, forget I’ll never!