TO MY CIGARETTE.

[Illustration]

My own, my loved, my Cigarette,

My dainty joy disguised in tissue,

What fate can make your slave regret

The day when first he dared to kiss you?

I had smoked briars, like to most

Who joy in smoking, and had been a

Too ready prey to those who boast

Their bonded stores of Reina Fina.

In honeydew had steeped my soul

Had been of cherry pipes a cracker,

And watched the creamy meerschaum's bowl

Grow weekly, daily, hourly blacker.

Read CALVERLEY and learnt by heart

The lines he celebrates the weed in;

And blew my smoke in rings, an art

That many try, but few succeed in.

In fact of nearly every style

Of smoke I was a kindly critic,

Though I had found Manillas vile,

And Trichinopolis mephitic.

The stout tobacco-jar became

Within my smoking-room a fixture;

I heard my friends extol by name

Each one his own peculiar mixture.

And tried them every one in turn

(_O varium, tobacco, semper_!);

The strong I found too apt to burn

My tongue, the week to try my temper.

And all were failures, and I grew

More tentative and undecided,

Consulted friends, and found they knew

As little as or less than I did.

Havannah yielded up her pick

Of prime cigars to my fruition;

I bought a case, and some went "sick."

The rest were never in condition.

Until in sheer fatigue I turned

To you, tobacco's white-robed tyro,

And from your golden legend learned

Your maker dwelt and wrought in Cairo.

O worshipped wheresoe'er I roam,

As fondly as a wife by some is,

Waif from the far Egyptian home

Of Pharaohs, crocodiles, and mummies;

Beloved, in spite of jeer and frown;

The more the Philistines assail you,

The more the doctors run you down,

The more I puff you--and inhale you.

Though worn with toil and vexed with strife

(Ye smokers all, attend and hear me),

Undaunted still I live my life,

With you, my Cigarette, to cheer me.

* * * * *

[Illustration: SOMETHING WRONG SOMEWHERE.

"HOW CHARMING YOU LOOK, DEAR MRS. BELLAMY--AS USUAL! _WOULD_ YOU MIND

TELLING ME WHO MAKES YOUR LOVELY FROCKS? I'M _SO_ DISSATISFIED WITH MY

DRESSMAKER!"

"OH, CERTAINLY. MRS. CHIFFONNETTE, OF BOND STREET."

"CHIFFONNETTE! WHY, I'VE BEEN TO HER FOR YEARS! THE WRETCH! I WONDER

WHY SHE SUITS YOU SO MUCH BETTER, NOW!"]

* * * * *

Punch, Or The London Charivari, Volume 102, January 30, 1892 · 第 17 / 34 题