And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,
  As we used to talk together of the future we had planned: 
  When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do
  But write the tender verses that she set the music to;

  When we should live together in a cozy little cot,
  Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot,
  Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,
  And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine;

  And I should be her lover forever and a day,
  And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;
  And we should be so happy that when either’s lips were dumb
  They would not smile in heaven till the other’s kiss had come.

  But ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair,
  And the door is softly opened, and my wife is standing there! 
  Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign
  To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

        Let the learned talk of books,
        The glutton of cooks,
  The lover of Celia’s soft smack—­O! 
        No mortal can boast
        So noble a toast
  As a pipe of accepted tobacco.

        Let the soldier for fame,
        And a general’s name,
  In battle get many a thwack—­O! 
        Let who will have most,
        Who will rule the rooste,
  Give me but a pipe of tobacco.

        Tobacco gives wit
        To the dullest old cit,
  And makes him of politics crack—­O! 
        The lawyers i’ the hall
        Were not able to bawl,
  Were it not for a whiff of tobacco.

        The man whose chief glory
        Is telling a story,
  Had never arrived at the smack—­O! 
        Between ever heying,
        And as I was saying,
  Did he not take a whiff of tobacco.

        The doctor who places
        Much skill in grimaces,
  And feels your pulse running tic-tack—­O! 
        Would you know his chief skill? 
        It is only to fill
  And smoke a good pipe of tobacco.

        The courtiers alone
        To this weed are not prone;
  Would you know what ’tis makes them so slack—­O? 
        ’Twas because it inclined
        To be honest the mind,
  And therefore they banished tobacco.

HENRY FIELDING.

  Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. 
  What needs my Muse to sing thy various praise? 
  In country or in town, on land or sea,
  The weed is still delightful company. 
  In joy or sorrow, grief or racking pain,
  We fly to thee for solace once again. 
  Delicious plant, by all the world consumed,
  ’Tis pity thou, like man, to ashes too art doom’d.

ANON.