The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket,—­
  With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and black to the
          socket.

  Open the old cigar-box,—­let me consider a while,—­
  Here is a mild Manilla,—­there is a wifely smile.

  Which is the better portion,—­bondage bought with a ring,
  Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

  Counsellors cunning and silent—­comforters true and tried,
  And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.

  Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
  Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.

  This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
  With only a Suttee’s passion,—­to do their duty and burn.

  This will the fifty give me.  When they are spent and dead,
  Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

  The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
  When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.

  I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths
          withal,
  So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

  I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their
          hides,
  And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy, who read of the tale of my
          brides.

  For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
  The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o’ Teen.

  And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear. 
  But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;

  And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
  Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and
          Fight.

  And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
  But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love.

  Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the
          mire? 
  Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful
          fire?

  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.