Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider anew,-- Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon _you_?
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.
Light me another Cuba: I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!
RUDYARD KIPLING.
ON A BROKEN PIPE.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with living inspirations warm; Type of all other creatures formed of clay-- What more than it for epitaph have they?
A VALENTINE.
What's my love's name? Guess her name.
Nina? No.
Alina? No.
It does end with "ina," though.
Guess again. Christina? No; Guess again. Wilhelmina? No.
She reciprocates my flame, Cheers me wheresoe'er I go, Never forward, never coy, She is evermore my joy.
Oh, the rapture! oh, the bliss!
When I met my darling's kiss.
Oh, I love her form to greet!
Oh, her breath is passing sweet!
Who could help but love her so?
Nicotina, mistress mine, Thou shall be my Valentine.
ANON.
MY CIGARETTE.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and sorrow, The magic wand that, far beyond To-day, can conjure up to-morrow.
Like love's desire, thy crown of fire So softly with the twilight blending; And ah, meseems a poet's dreams Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending.
My cigarette! Can I forget How Kate and I, in sunny weather, Sat in the shade the elm-tree made And rolled the fragrant weed together?
I at her side, beatified To hold and guide her fingers willing; She rolling slow the papers snow, Putting my heart in with the filling.
My cigarette! I see her yet, The white smoke from her red lips curling, Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies, Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling!
Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul Ebbs out in many a snowy billow, I too would burn, if I could earn Upon her lips so soft a pillow.
Ah, cigarette! The gay coquette Has long forgot the flame she lighted; And you and I unthinking by Alike are thrown, alike are slighted.
The darkness gathers fast without, A raindrop on my window plashes; My cigarette and heart are out, And naught is left me but the ashes.
CHARLES F. LUMMIS.
THE PIPE CRITIC.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me? By my life, I'll ask not gods above To help me choose a wife; But to thy gentle self I'll give the puzzling strife.
Thy color let me find, And blue like smoke her eyes; A healthy store her mind As that which in thee lies,-- An evanescent draft, whose incense mounts the skies.
And, pipe, a breath like thine; Her hair an amber gold, And wrought in shapes as fine As that which now I hold; A grace in every limb, her form thy slender mould.
And when her lips I kiss, Oh, may she burn like thee, And strive to give me bliss!
A comforter to be When friends wax cold, time fades, and all departs from me.
And may she hide in smoke, As you, my friend, have done, The failings that would choke My virtues every one, Turn grief to laughing jest, or painful thought to fun.
Her aid be such as thine To stir my brain a bit.
When 'round this hearth of mine Friends sit and banter wit, She'll shape a well-turned phrase, a subtle jest to hit.
In short, my sole delight (Why, pipe, you sputter so!), Whose angel visage bright (And at me ashes throw!) Shall never rival fear. You're jealous now, I know.
Nay, pipe, I'll not leave thee; For of thy gifts there's one That's passing dear to me Whose equal she'd have none,-- The gift of peace serene; she'd have, alas, a tongue!
WALTER LITTLEFIELD.
A SONG WITHOUT A NAME.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_."
'Twas in Queen Bess's golden days That smoking came in fashion; And from the court it quickly spread Throughout the English nation.
The courtiers first the lesson learnt, And burn'd the fragrant treasure; And e'en the queen herself, 'tis said, Would sometimes share the pleasure.
But this is true, I will maintain,-- And I am far from joking,-- Of all the pleasures men have found There's none to equal smoking.
Then learned men and lawyers wise And grave divines and doctors Found smoking help'd to clear the brain, And puff'd away in flocks, sirs; Then business men and humble clerks And laborer and peasant By smoking care would drive away, And make this life more pleasant.
For this is true. I will maintain,-- And I am far from joking,-- Of all the pleasures men have found There's none to equal smoking.
And from these times we modern men Great glory do inherit, And wealth and learning and the strength Which makes the English spirit.
We have no care, we fear no foe, We pass our lifetime gayly, But little think how much we owe To great Sir Walter Raleigh.