They tell me Nancy Low
    Has married Mr. R.;
  The jilt! but I can live,
    So I have my cigar.

THOMAS HOOD.

PIPE AND TOBACCO.

  When my pipe burns bright and clear,
  The gods I need not envy here;
  And as the smoke fades in the wind,
  Our fleeting life it brings to mind.

  Noble weed! that comforts life,
  And art with calmest pleasures rife;
  Heaven grant thee sunshine and warm rain,
  And to thy planter health and gain.

  Through thee, friend of my solitude,
  With hope and patience I’m endued,
  Deep sinks thy power within my heart,
  And cares and sorrows all depart.

  Then let non-smokers rail forever;
  Shall their hard words true friends dissever? 
  Pleasure’s too rare to cast away
  My pipe, for what the railers say!

  When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me,
  When friends are fled, thy presence charms me;
  If thou art full, though purse be bare,
  I smoke, and cast away all care!

German Folk Song.

THE LATEST CONVERT.

  I’ve been in love some scores of times,
    With Amy, Nellie, Katie, Mary—­
  To name them all would stretch my rhymes
    From here as far as Demerary.

  But each has wed some other man,—­
    Girls always do, I find, in real life,—­
  And I am left alone to scan
    The horizon of my own ideal life.

  I still survive.  I was, I think,
    Not born to run in double harness;
  I did not shirk my food and drink
    When Nellie married Harry Carnice.

  But I am wedded to my pipe! 
    That faithful friend, nought can provoke it;
  Should it grow cold, I gently wipe
    Its mouth, then fill it, light, and smoke it.

  But it is sweet to kiss; and I
    Should love to kiss a wife and pet her—­
  She scolds?  Straight to my pipe I fly;
    Her scowls through fragrant smoke look better.

  There’s merry Maud—­with her I’d dare
    To brave the matrimonial ocean;
  She would not pout or fret, but wear
    A constant smile of sweet devotion.

  How know I that she will not change,
    My wishes at defiance set?  Oh! 
  (Pray this in smallest type arrange)
    She smokes—­at times—­a cigareto.

F.W.  LITTLETON HAY.

CONFESSION OF A CIGAR SMOKER.

  I owe to smoking, more or less,
  Through life the whole of my success;
  With my cigar I’m sage and wise,—­
  Without, I’m dull as cloudy skies. 
  When smoking, all my ideas soar,
  When not, they sink upon the floor. 
  The greatest men have all been smokers,
  And so were all the greatest jokers. 
  Then ye who’d bid adieu to care,
  Come here and smoke it into air.