When I feel the hot strife of the battle of life, And the prospect is aught but enticin', Mayhap some real ill, like a protested bill, Dims the sunshine that tinged the horizon: Only let me puff, puff,--be they ever so rough, All the sorrows of life I lose track o', The mists disappear, and the vista is clear, With a soothing mild pipe of tobacco.
And when joy after pain, like the sun after rain, Stills the waters, long turbid and troubled, That life's current may flow with a ruddier glow, And the sense of enjoyment be doubled,-- Oh! let me puff, puff, till I feel _quantum suff._, Such luxury still I'm in lack o'; Be joy ever so sweet, it would be incomplete, Without a good pipe of tobacco.
Should my recreant muse--sometimes apt to refuse The guidance of bit and of bridle-- Still blankly demur, spite of whip and spur, Unimpassioned, inconstant, or idle; Only let me puff, puff, till the brain cries, "Enough!" Such excitement is all I'm in lack o', And the poetic vein soon to fancy gives rein, Inspired by a pipe of tobacco.
And when, with one accord, round the jovial board, In friendship our bosoms are glowing, While with toast and with song we the evening prolong, And with nectar the goblets are flowing; Still let us puff, puff,--be life smooth, be it rough, Such enjoyment we're ever in lack o'; The more peace and good-will will abound as we fill A jolly good pipe of tobacco.
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OVER HER GRAVE._
Let no cold marble o'er my body rise-- But only earth above, and sunny skies. Thus would I lowly lie in peaceful rest, Nursing the Herb Divine from out my breast. Green let it grow above this clay of mine, Deriving strength from strength that I resign. So in the days to come, when I'm beyond This fickle life, will come my lovers fond, And gazing on the plant, their grief restrain In whispering, "Lo! dear Anna blooms again!"
I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beechen tree, With its leaves by the autumn made ripe; While they cling to the stems like old age unto life, I dream of the days when I'll rest from this strife, And in peace smoke my brierwood pipe.
O my brierwood pipe!--of bright fancy the twin, What a medley of forms you create; Every puff of white smoke seems a vision as fair As the poet's bright dream, and like dreams fades in air, While the dreamer dreams on of his fate.