When a blanket wet
  Is solidly set
  O’er hopes prematurely grown;
  When ambition is tame,
  And energy lame,
  And the bloom from the fruit is blown;
  When to dance and to dine
  With women and wine
  Past poverty pleasures are,—­
  A man’s not bereft
  Of all peace, if there’s left
  The joy of a good cigar.

NORRIS BULL.

  A glass is good, and a lass is good,
    And a pipe to smoke in cold weather;
  The world is good, and the people are good,
    And we’re all good fellows together.

JOHN O’KEEFE:  Sprigs of Laurel, Act ii. sc. i.

MY FRIENDLY PIPE.

  Let sybarites still dream delights
    While smoking cigarettes,
  Whose opiates get in their pates
    Till waking brings regrets;
  Oh, let them doze, devoid of woes,
    Of troubles, and of frets.

  And let the chap who loves to nap
    With his cigar in hand
  Pursue his way, and live his day,
    As runs time’s changing sand;
  Let him delight by day and night
    In his peculiar brand.

  But as for me, I love to be
    Provided with a pipe,—­
  A rare old bowl to warm my soul,
    A meerschaum brown and ripe,—­
  With good plug cut, no stump or butt,
    Nor filthy gutter-snipe.

  My joys increase!  It brings me peace
    As nothing else can do;
  From all the strife of daily life
    Here my relief is true. 
  I watch its rings; it purrs and sings—­
    And then it’s cheaper, too!

Detroit Tribune.

ODE TO TOBACCO.

  Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend,
    Come, and thy suppliant attend
  In each dull, lonely hour;
  And though misfortunes lie around,
  Thicker than hailstones on the ground,
    I’ll rest upon thy power. 
  Then while the coxcomb, pert and proud,
  The politician, learned and loud,
    Keep one eternal clack,
  I’ll tread where silent Nature smiles,
  Where Solitude our woe beguiles,
    And chew thee, dear Tobac.

DANIEL WEBSTER.

A BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY.

  I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire,
    I ne’er knew the Benedict’s yoke;
  I worship a fairy-like, fanciful form,
    That goes up the chimney in smoke.

  I sit in my dressing-gowned slipperful ease,
    Without wife or bairns to provoke,
  And puff at my pipe, while my hopes and my fears
    All go up the chimney in smoke.

  I sit with my pipe, and my heart’s lonesome care
    I try, but all vainly, to choke. 
  Ah, me! but I find that the flame that Love lights
    Won’t go up the chimney in smoke.

Cigar and Tobacco World, London.