Pipe and Pouch Part 8

Often when my thoughts are _low_, Send them where they ought to go; When to study I incline, Let her aid be such as thine; Such as thine the charming power In the vacant social hour.

Let her live to give delight, Ever _warm_ and ever _bright_; Let her deeds, whene'er she dies, Mount as incense to the skies.

_Gentleman's Magazine_.

MY THREE LOVES.

When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty, Three loves were scattered in my way-- And three at once are plenty.

Three hearts, if offered with a grace, One thinks not of refusing; The task in this especial case Was only that of choosing.

I knew not which to make my pet,-- My pipe, cigar, or cigarette.

To cheer my night or glad my day My pipe was ever willing; The meerschaum or the lowly clay Alike repaid the filling.

Grown men delight in blowing clouds, As boys in blowing bubbles, Our cares to puff away in crowds And vanish all our troubles.

My pipe I nearly made my pet, Above cigar or cigarette.

A tiny paper, tightly rolled About some Latakia, Contains within its magic fold A mighty _panacea_.

Some thought of sorrow or of strife At ev'ry whiff will vanish; And all the scenery of life Turn picturesquely Spanish.

But still I could not quite forget Cigar and pipe for cigarette.

To yield an after-dinner puff O'er _demi-ta.s.se_ and brandy, No cigarettes are strong enough, No pipes are ever handy.

However fine may be the feed, It only moves my laughter Unless a dry delicious weed Appears a little after.

A prime cigar I firmly set Above a pipe or cigarette.

But after all I try in vain To fetter my opinion; Since each upon my giddy brain Has boasted a dominion.

Comparisons I'll not provoke, Lest _all_ should be offended.

Let this discussion end in smoke As many more have ended.

And each I'll make a special pet; My pipe, cigar, and cigarette.

HENRY S. LEIGH.

SMOKE IS THE FOOD OF LOVERS.

When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just the very one you might suppose.

Love keep a shop?--his trade, oh! quickly name!

A dealer in tobacco--fie, for shame!

No less than true, and set aside all joke, From oldest time he ever dealt in smoke; Than smoke, no other thing he sold, or made; Smoke all the substance of his stock in trade; His capital all smoke, smoke all his store, 'Twas nothing else; but lovers ask no more-- And thousands enter daily at his door!

Hence it was ever, and it e'er will be The trade most suited to his faculty: Fed by the vapors of their heart's desire, No other food his votaries require; For that they seek--the favor of the fair-- Is unsubstantial as the smoke and air.

JACOB CATS: _Moral Emblems_.

CLOUDS.

Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds around disperse; Clouds to gather, thick as night, Is the smoker's universe.

_From the German of Bauernfeld_.

IN FAVOR OF TOBACCO.

Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like swine; But he's a frugal man indeed That with a leaf can dine, And needs no napkin for his hands, His fingers' ends to wipe, But keeps his kitchen in a box, And roast meat in a pipe.

SAMUEL ROWLANDS: _Knave of Clubs_ (1611).

MY CIGARETTE.

_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_.

To my sweet cigarette I am singing This joyous and bright bacca-role; Just now to my lips she was clinging, Her spirit was soothing my soul.

With figure so slender and dapper I feel the soft touch of it yet, Adorned in her dainty white wrapper, How fair is my own cigarette!

'Twere better, perhaps, that we part, love; 'Twere better, if never we'd met.

Alas, you are part of my heart, love, Destructive but sweet cigarette!

Though matchless, by matches she's fired, And glows both with pleasure and pride; By her soft, balmy breath I'm inspired, And kiss and caress my new bride.

E'en the clouds of her nature are joyous, Though other clouds cause us regret; From worry and care they decoy us, The clouds of a sweet cigarette.

'Twere better, etc.

The houris in paradise living Dissolve in the first love embrace, Their life to their love freely giving,-- And so with my love 'tis the case; For when her life's last spark is flying, Still sweet to the end is my pet, Who helps me, although she is dying, To light up a fresh cigarette!

'Twere better, etc.

THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.

When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets out wild oats to sow, He puffs a stiff and stark cigar, And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co.

He likes not smoking yet; but though Tobacco makes him sick indeed, Cigars and wine he can't forego,-- A slave is each man to the weed.

In time his tastes more dainty are And delicate. Become a beau, From out the country of the czar He brings his cigarettes, and lo!

He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.

Thus keener relish shall succeed The baser liking we outgrow,-- A slave is each man to the weed