Go, whining youth, Forsooth!
Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,-- But leave me to my beer!
Gold is dross, Love is loss; So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown Without a cross!
GEORGE ARNOLD.
EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, Your fame to raise, Upon its blaze, Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre!
Tempting Fate's stroke; Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke.
Safe in my chair from wounds and woe, _My_ fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow.
Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs, The public smokes, You and your hoax, And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs.
Ye through the nose Pay for each puff; when mine the same way flows, It does not run me into debt; And thus, the more I fume, the less I fret.
Authors! created to be puff'd to death, And fill the mouth Of some uncouth Bookselling wight, who sucks your brains and breath, Your leaves thus far (Without its fire) resemble my cigar; But vapid, uninspired, and flat: When, when, O Bards, will ye _compose_ like _that_?
Since life and the anxieties that share Our hopes and trust, Are smoke and dust, Give me the smoke and dust that banish care.
The roll'd leaf bring, Which from its ashes, Phoenix-like, can spring; The fragrant leaf whose magic balm Can, like Nepenthe, all our sufferings charm.
Oh, what supreme beatitude is this!
What soft and sweet Sensations greet My soul, and wrap it in Elysian bliss!
I soar above Dull earth in these ambrosial clouds, like Jove, And from my empyrean height Look down upon the world with calm delight.
HORACE SMITH.
A POT, AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant enough To those who have got the right knack, O!
But give me, my boys, Those exquisite joys, A pot, and a pipe of tobacco.
When fume follows fume To the top of the room, In circles pursuing their track, O!
How sweet to inhale The health-giving gale Of a pipe of Virginia tobacco.
Let soldiers so bold For fame or for gold Their enemies cut, slash, and hack, O!
We have fire and smoke, Though all but in joke, In a peaceable pipe of tobacco.
Should a mistress, unkind, Be inconstant in mind, And on your affections look black, O!
Let her wherrit and tiff, 'Twill blow off in a whiff, If you take but a pipe of tobacco.
The miserly elf, Who, in hoarding his pelf, Keeps body and soul on the rack, O!
Would he bless and be blest, He might open his chest By taking a pipe of tobacco.
Politicians so wise, All ears and all eyes For news, till their addled pates crack, O!
After puzzling their brains, Will not get for their pains The worth of a pipe of tobacco
If your land in the claw Of a limb of the law You trust, or your health to a quack, O!
'Tis fifty to one They're both as soon gone As you'd puff out a pipe of tobacco.
Life's short, 'tis agreed; So we'll try from the weed, Of man a brief emblem to tack, O!
When his spirit ascends, Die he must,--and he ends In dust, like a pipe of tobacco.
_From "The Universal Songster, or Museum of Mirth."_
IF I WERE KING.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier.
The skies of time and chance are seldom clear, We would inform them all, with bland blue weather.
Delight alone would need to shed a tear, For dream and deed should war no more together.
Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear; Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather; And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere, If I were king.
But politics should find no harbour near; The Philistine should fear to slip his tether; Tobacco should be duty free, and beer; In fact, in room of this, the age of leather, An age of gold all radiant should appear, If I were king.
W.E. HENLEY.
THE PIPE YOU MAKE YOURSELF.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well, There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes--things jes made to sell; But any pipe that kin be bought fer marbles, chalk, or pelf, Ain't ekal to the flaver of th' pipe you make yourself.
Jest take a common corn cob an' whittle out the middle, Then plug up one end of it as tight as any fiddle; Fit a stem into th' side an' lay her on th' shelf, An' when she's dry you take her down, that pipe you made yourself.
Cram her full clar to th' brim with nachral leaf, you bet-- 'T will smoke a trifle better for bein' somewhat wet-- Take your worms and fishin' pole, and a jug along for health, An' you'll get a taste o' heaven from that pipe you made yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well, There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes--things jes made to sell; But any pipe that kin be bought for marbles, chalk, or pelf, Ain't ekal to th' flayer of the pipe you make yourself.
HENRY E. BROWN.
CHIBOUQUE.