“I’ve heard,” thought she, “this ill to cure,
    A pipe is good, they say. 
  Well then, tobacco I’ll endure,
    And smoke the pain away.”

  The pipe was lit, the tooth soon well,
    And she retired to rest,
  When then the other ancient belle
    Her spinster maid addressed,—­

  “Let me request a favor, pray”—­
    “I’ll do it if I can”—­
  “Oh! well, then, love, smoke every day,
    You smell so like a man!”

Attributed to JOHN STANLEY GREGSON.

AN ODE OF THANKS FOR CERTAIN CIGARS.

TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON.

  Luck, my dear Norton, still makes shifts,
  To mix a mortal with her gifts,
  Which he may find who duly sifts.

  Sweets to the sweet,—­behold the clue! 
  Why not, then, new things to the gnu,
  And trews to Highland clansmen true?

  ’Twas thus your kindly thought decreed
  These weeds to one who is indeed,
  And feels himself, a very weed,—­

  A weed from which, when bruised and shent,
  Though some faint perfume may be rent,
  Yet oftener much without a cent.

  But imp, O Muse, a stronger wing
  Mount, leaving self below, and sing
  What thoughts these Cuban exiles bring!

  He that knows aught of mythic lore
  Knows how god Bacchus wandered o’er
  The earth, and what strange names he bore.

  The Bishop of Avranches supposes
  That all these large and varying doses
  Of fable mean naught else than Moses;

  But waiving doubts, we surely know
  He taught mankind to plough and sow,
  And from the Tigris to the Po

  Planted the vine; but of his visit
  To this our hemisphere, why is it
  We have no statement more explicit?

  He gave to us a leaf divine
  More grateful to the serious Nine
  Than fierce inspirings of the vine.

  And that he loved it more, this proved,—­
  He gave his name to what he loved,
  Distorted now, but not removed.

  Tobacco, sacred herb, though lowly,
  Baffles old Time, the tyrant, wholly,
  And makes him turn his hour-glass slowly;

  Nay, makes as ’twere of every glass six,
  Whereby we beat the heathen classics
  With their weak Chians and their Massics.

  These gave his glass a quicker twist,
  And flew the hours like driving mist,
  While Horace drank and Lesbia kissed.

  How are we gainers when all’s done,
  If Life’s swift clepsydra have run
  With wine for water?  ’Tis all one.

  But this rare plant delays the stream
  (At least if things are what they seem)
  Through long eternities of dream.

  What notes the antique Muse had known
  Had she, instead of oat-straws, blown
  Our wiser pipes of clay or stone!