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.
Authors! created to be puff'd to death,
And fill the mouth
Of some uncouth
Bookselling wight, who sucks your brains and breath,
Your leaves thus far
(Without its fire) resemble my cigar;
But vapid, uninspired, and flat:
When, when, O Bards, will ye _compose_ like _that_?
Since life and the anxieties that share
Our hopes and trust,
Are smoke and dust,
Give me the smoke and dust that banish care.
The roll'd leaf bring,
Which from its ashes, Phoenix-like, can spring;
The fragrant leaf whose magic balm
Can, like Nepenthe, all our sufferings charm.
Oh, what supreme beatitude is this!
What soft and sweet
Sensations greet
My soul, and wrap it in Elysian bliss!
I soar above
Dull earth in these ambrosial clouds, like Jove,
And from my empyrean height
Look down upon the world with calm delight.
HORACE SMITH.
A POT, AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Some praise taking snuff;
And 'tis pleasant enough
To those who have got the right knack, O!
But give me, my boys,
Those exquisite joys,
A pot, and a pipe of tobacco.
When fume follows fume
To the top of the room,
In circles pursuing their track, O!
How sweet to inhale
The health-giving gale
Of a pipe of Virginia tobacco.
Let soldiers so bold
For fame or for gold
Their enemies cut, slash, and hack, O!
We have fire and smoke,
Though all but in joke,
In a peaceable pipe of tobacco.
Should a mistress, unkind,
Be inconstant in mind,
And on your affections look black, O!
Let her wherrit and tiff,
'Twill blow off in a whiff,
If you take but a pipe of tobacco.
The miserly elf,
Who, in hoarding his pelf,
Keeps body and soul on the rack, O!
Would he bless and be blest,
He might open his chest
By taking a pipe of tobacco.
Politicians so wise,
All ears and all eyes
For news, till their addled pates crack, O!
After puzzling their brains,
Will not get for their pains
The worth of a pipe of tobacco
If your land in the claw
Of a limb of the law
You trust, or your health to a quack, O!
'Tis fifty to one
They're both as soon gone
As you'd puff out a pipe of tobacco.
Life's short, 'tis agreed;
So we'll try from the weed,
Of man a brief emblem to tack, O!
When his spirit ascends,
Die he must,--and he ends
In dust, like a pipe of tobacco.
_From "The Universal Songster, or Museum of Mirth."_
IF I WERE KING.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier.
The skies of time and chance are seldom clear,
We would inform them all, with bland blue weather.
Delight alone would need to shed a tear,
For dream and deed should war no more together.
Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear;
Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather;
And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere,
If I were king.
But politics should find no harbour near;
The Philistine should fear to slip his tether;
Tobacco should be duty free, and beer;
In fact, in room of this, the age of leather,
An age of gold all radiant should appear,
If I were king.
W.E. HENLEY.
THE PIPE YOU MAKE YOURSELF.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well,
There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes--things jes made to sell;
But any pipe that kin be bought fer marbles, chalk, or pelf,
Ain't ekal to the flaver of th' pipe you make yourself.
Jest take a common corn cob an' whittle out the middle,
Then plug up one end of it as tight as any fiddle;
Fit a stem into th' side an' lay her on th' shelf,
An' when she's dry you take her down, that pipe you made yourself.
Cram her full clar to th' brim with nachral leaf, you bet--
'T will smoke a trifle better for bein' somewhat wet--
Take your worms and fishin' pole, and a jug along for health,
An' you'll get a taste o' heaven from that pipe you made yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well,
There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes--things jes made to sell;
But any pipe that kin be bought for marbles, chalk, or pelf,
Ain't ekal to th' flayer of the pipe you make yourself.
HENRY E. BROWN.
CHIBOUQUE.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan,
The pacha in his palace lolls at ease;
Latakieh fumes his sensual palate please,
While round-limbed almées dance near his divan.
Slaves lure away _ennui_ with flowers and fan;
And as his gem-tipped chibouque glows, he sees,
In dreamy trance, those marvellous mysteries
The prophet sings of in the Al-Korán!
Pale, dusk-eyed girls, with sequin-studded hair,
Dart through the opal clouds like agile deer,
With sensuous curves his fancy to provoke,--
Delicious houris, ravishing and fair,
Who to his vague and drowsy mind appear
Like fragrant phantoms arabesqued in smoke!
FRANCIS S. SALTUS.
IN ROTTEN ROW.
In Rotten Row a cigarette
I sat and smoked, with no regret
For all the tumult that had been.
The distances were still and green,
And streaked with shadows cool and wet.
Two sweethearts on a bench were set,
Two birds among the boughs were met;
So love and song were heard and seen
In Rotten Row.
A horse or two there was to fret
The soundless sand; but work and debt,
Fair flowers and falling leaves between,
While clocks are chiming clear and keen,
A man may very well forget
In Rotten Row.
W.E. HENLEY.
THE DUET.
I was smoking a cigarette;
Maud, my wife, and the tenor, McKey,
Were singing together a blithe duet,
And days it were better I should forget
Came suddenly back to me,--
Days when life seemed a gay masque ball,
And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.
As they sang together, the whole scene fled,
The room's rich hangings, the sweet home air,
Stately Maud, with her proud blond head,
And I seemed to see in her place instead
A wealth of blue-black hair,
And a face, ah! your face--yours, Lisette;
A face it were wiser I should forget.
We were back--well, no matter when or where;
But you remember, I know, Lisette.
I saw you, dainty and debonair,
With the very same look that you used to wear
In the days I should forget.
And your lips, as red as the vintage we quaffed,
Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed.
Two small slippers with big rosettes
Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there,
While we sat smoking our cigarettes
(Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets!)
And singing that self-same air:
And between the verses, for interlude,
I kissed your throat and your shoulders nude.
You were so full of a subtle fire,
You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette;
You were everything men admire;
And there were no fetters to make us tire,
For you were--a pretty grisette.
But you loved as only such natures can,
With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.
They have ceased singing that old duet,
Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey.
"You are burning your coat with your cigarette,
And _qu'avez vous_, dearest, your lids are wet,"
Maud says, as she leans o'er me.
And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise,
"Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes."
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
MY CIGARETTE.
Ma pauvre petite,
My little sweet,
Why do you cry?
Why this small tear,
So pure and clear,
In each blue eye?
"My cigarette--
I 'm smoking yet?"
(I'll be discreet.)
I toss it, see,
Away from me
Into the street.
You see I do
All things for you.
Come, let us sup.
(But, oh, what joy
To be that boy
Who picked it up.)
TOM HALL.
A BACHELOR'S VIEWS.
A pipe, a book,
A cosy nook,
A fire,--at least its embers;
A dog, a glass:--
'Tis thus we pass
Such hours as one remembers.
Who'd wish to wed?
Poor Cupid's dead
These thousand years, I wager.
The modern maid
Is but a jade,
Not worth the time to cage her.
In silken gown
To "take" the town
Her first and last ambition.
What good is she
To you or me
Who have but a "position"?
So let us drink
To her,--but think
Of him who has to keep her;
And _sans_ a wife
Let's spend our life
In bachelordom,--it's cheaper.
TOM HALL.
PIPES AND BEER.
Before I was famous I used to sit
In a dull old under-ground room I knew,
And sip cheap beer, and be glad for it,
With a wild Bohemian friend or two.
And oh, it was joy to loiter thus,
At peace in the heart of the city's stir,
Entombed, while life hurried over us,
In our lazy bacchanal sepulchre.
There was artist George, with the blond Greek head,
And the startling creeds, and the loose cravat;
There was splenetic journalistic Fred,
Of the sharp retort and the shabby hat;
There was dreamy Frank, of the lounging gait,
Who lived on nothing a year, or less,
And always meant to be something great,
But only meant, and smoked to excess;
And last myself, whom their funny sneers
Annoyed no whit as they laughed and said,
I listened to all their grand ideas
And wrote them out for my daily bread!
The Teuton beer-bibbers came and went,
Night after night, and stared, good folk,
At our table, noisy with argument,
And our chronic aureoles of smoke.
And oh, my life! but we all loved well
The talk,--free, fearless, keen, profound,--
The rockets of wit that flashed and fell
In that dull old tavern under-ground!
But there came a change in my days at last,
And fortune forgot to starve and stint,
And the people chose to admire aghast
The book I had eaten dirt to print.
And new friends gathered about me then,
New voices summoned me there and here;
The world went down in my dingy den,
And drew me forth from the pipes and beer.
I took the stamp of my altered lot,
As the sands of the certain seasons ran,
And slowly, whether I would or not,
I felt myself growing a gentleman.
But now and then I would break the thrall,
I would yield to a pang of dumb regret,
And steal to join them, and find them all,
With the amber wassail near them yet,--
Find, and join them, and try to seem
A fourth for the old queer merry three,
With my fame as much of a yearning dream
As my morrow's dinner was wont to be.
But the wit would lag, and the mirth would lack,
And the god of jollity hear no call,
And the prosperous broadcloth on my back
Hung over their spirits like a pall!
It was not that they failed, each one, to try
Their warmth of welcome to speak and show;
I should just have risen and said good-bye,
With a haughty look, had they served me so.
It was rather that each would seem, instead,
With not one vestige of spleen or pride,
Across a chasm of change to spread
His greeting hands to the further side.
And our gladdest words rang strange and cold,
Like the echoes of other long-lost words;
And the nights were no more the nights of old
Than spring would be spring without the birds!
So they waned and waned, these visits of mine,
'Till I married the heiress, ending here.
For if caste approves the cigars and wine,
She must frown perforce upon pipes and beer.
And now 'tis years since I saw these men,
Years since I knew them living yet.
And of this alone I am sure since then,--
That none has gained what he toiled to get.
For I keep strict watch on the world of art,
And George, with his wide, rich-dowered brain!
His fervent fancy, his ardent heart,
Though he greatly toiled, has toiled in vain.
And Fred, for all he may sparkle bright
In caustic column, in clever quip,
Of a truth must still be hiding his light
Beneath the bushel of journalship.
And dreamy Frank must be dreaming still,
Lounging through life, if yet alive,
Smoking his vast preposterous fill,
Lounging, smoking, striving to strive.
And I, the fourth in that old queer throng,
Fourth and least, as my soul avows,--
I alone have been counted strong,
I alone have the laurelled brows!
Well, and what has it all been worth?
May not my soul to my soul confess
That "succeeding," here upon earth,
Does not alway assume success?
I would cast, and gladly, from this gray head
Its crown, to regain one sweet lost year
With artist George, with splenetic Fred,
With dreamy Frank, with the pipes and beer!
EDGAR FAWCETT.
A BACHELOR'S INVOCATION.
When all my plans have come to grief,
And every bill is due,
And every faith that's worth belief
Has proved itself untrue;
And when, as now, I've jilted been
By every girl I've met,
Ah! then I flee for peace to thee,
My darling cigarette.
Hail, sorceress! whose cloudy spells
About my senses driven,
Alone can loose their prison cells
And waft my soul to heaven.
Above all earthly loves, I swear,
I hold thee best--and yet,
Would I could see a match for thee,
My darling cigarette.
With lips unstained to thee I bring
A lover's gentle kiss,
And woo thee, see, with this fair ring,
And this, and this, and this.
But ah, the rings no sooner cease
(Inconstant, vain coquette!)
Than, like the rest, thou vanishest
In smoke, my cigarette.
_Pall Mall Gazette_.