Tobacco, some say, is a potent narcotic,
  That rules half the world in a way quite despotic;
  So, to punish him well for his wicked and merry tricks,
  We’ll burn him forthwith, as they used to do heretics.

TO MY CIGAR.

  The warmth of thy glow,
    Well-lighted cigar,
  Makes happy thoughts flow,
    And drives sorrow afar.

  The stronger the wind blows,
    The brighter thou burnest! 
  The dreariest of life’s woes,
    Less gloomy thou turnest!

  As I feel on my lip
    Thy unselfish kiss,
  Like thy flame-colored tip,
    All is rosy-hued bliss.

  No longer does sorrow
    Lay weight on my heart;
  And all fears of the morrow,
    In joy-dreams depart.

  Sweet cheerer of sadness! 
    Life’s own happy star! 
  I greet thee with gladness,
    My friendly cigar!

FRIEDRICH MARC.

CIGARS AND BEER.

        Here
        With my beer
    I sit,
    While golden moments flit. 
        Alas! 
        They pass
  Unheeded by;
  And, as they fly,
        I,
        Being dry,
        Sit idly sipping here
        My beer.

    Oh, finer far
    Than fame or riches are
    The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar! 
        Why
        Should I
        Weep, wail, or sigh? 
        What if luck has passed me by? 
    What if my hopes are dead,
    My pleasures fled? 
        Have I not still
        My fill
    Of right good cheer,—­
    Cigars and beer?

  Go, whining youth,
  Forsooth! 
      Go, weep and wail,
      Sigh and grow pale,
      Weave melancholy rhymes
      On the old times,
  Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,—­
  But leave me to my beer! 
      Gold is dross,
      Love is loss;
  So, if I gulp my sorrows down,
  Or see them drown
  In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,
  Then do I wear the crown
      Without a cross!

GEORGE ARNOLD.

EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER.

  Warriors! who from the cannon’s mouth blow fire,
          Your fame to raise,
          Upon its blaze,
  Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre! 
          Tempting Fate’s stroke;
  Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke. 
  Safe in my chair from wounds and woe,
  My fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow.

  Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs,
          The public smokes,
          You and your hoax,
  And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs. 
          Ye through the nose
  Pay for each puff; when mine the same way flows,
  It does not run me into debt;
  And thus, the more I fume, the less I fret.