When age and his own lucky star To him perfected wisdom show, The schooner glides across the bar, And beer for him shall freely flow; A pipe with genial warmth shall glow, To which he turns in direst need, To seek in smoke surcease of woe,-- A slave is each man to the weed.
ENVOI.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to drink, take heed!
And see in smoke a friendly foe,-- A slave is each man to the weed.
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
HE RESPONDETH.
SHE.
You still persist in using, I observe with great regret, The needlessly expensive Cigarette.
HE.
You should set a good example; But you seem to quite forget That you use a thirty-dollar Vinaigrette.
_Life._
TO SEE HER PIPE AWRY.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street, And she had a smile for all.
Many were the friends she'd greet With kindly nod on passing by, Who, smiling, saw her pipe awry.
Poor old lass! she loved her pipe, A constant friend it seemed to be; As she sold her apples ripe, With an apple on each knee, How she'd make the smoke-wreaths fly, As I've watched her pipe awry!
Seasons came and seasons went, Only changing Betty's store; Youngsters with her always spent Their little all and wished they'd more: Timidly with upturned eye Staring at her pipe awry.
Bet was always at her post Early morn or even late; Ginger beer or chestnut roast, Served she as she sat in state, On two bushel-baskets high; You should have seen her pipe awry!
Little care old Betty had, She quietly jogged on her way; Never did her face look sad.
Although she fumed the livelong day.
Guiltless seemed she of a sigh.
I never saw her pipe her eye!
C.F.
INGIN SUMMER.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in the trees, An' the man thet knows it all, 'Spicions frost in every breeze, When a person tells hisse'f Thet the leaves look mighty thin, Then thar blows a meller breaf!
Ingin summer's hyere agin.
Kind-uh smoky-lookin' blues Spins acrost the mountain-side, An' the heavy mornin' dews Greens the grass up far an' wide, Natur' raly 'pears as ef She wuz layin' off a day,-- Sort-uh drorin in her breaf 'Fore she freezes up to stay.
Nary lick o' work I strike, 'Long about this time of year!
I'm a sort-uh slowly like, Right when Ingin summer's here.
Wife and boys kin do the work; But a man with natchel wit, Like I got, kin 'ford to shirk, Ef he has a turn for it.
Time when grapes set in to ripe, All I ast off any man Is a common co'n-cob pipe With terbacker to my han'; Then jest loose me whar the air Simmers 'crost me, wahm an' free!
Promised lands ull find me thar; Wings ull fahly sprout on me!
I'm a loungin' 'round on thrones, Bossin' worlds f'om shore to shore, When I stretch my marrer-bones Jest outside the cabin door!
An' the sunshine peepin' down On my old head, bald an' gray, 'Pears right like the gilted crown, I expect to w'ar some day.
EVA WILDER MCGLASSON.
EDIFYING REFLECTIONS OF A TOBACCO-SMOKER.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANSLATED BY EDWARD BRECK._
As oft I fill my faithful pipe, To while away the moments glad, With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe, My mind perceives an image sad, So that I can but clearly see How very like it is to me.
My pipe is made of earth and clay, From which my mortal part is wrought; I, too, must turn to earth some day.
It often falls, as quick as thought, And breaks in two,--puts out its flame; My fate, alas! is but the same!
My pipe I color not, nor paint; White it remains, and hence 'tis true That, when in Death's cold arms I faint, My lips shall wear the ashen hue; And as it blackens day by day, So black the grave shall turn my clay!
And when the pipe is put alight The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes, And soon dissolves in sunshine bright, And but the whitened ash remains.
'Tis so man's glory crumble must, E'en as his body, into dust!
How oft the filler is mislaid; And, rather than to seek in vain, I use my finger in its stead, And fancy as I feel the pain, If coals can burn to such degree, How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!
So in tobacco oft I find, Lessons of such instructive type; And hence with calm, contented mind I live, and smoke my faithful pipe In reverence where'er I roam,-- On land, on water, and at home.