And may she hide in smoke,
        As you, my friend, have done,
      The failings that would choke
        My virtues every one,
  Turn grief to laughing jest, or painful thought to fun.

      Her aid be such as thine
        To stir my brain a bit. 
      When ’round this hearth of mine
        Friends sit and banter wit,
  She’ll shape a well-turned phrase, a subtle jest to hit.

      In short, my sole delight
        (Why, pipe, you sputter so!),
      Whose angel visage bright
        (And at me ashes throw!)
  Shall never rival fear.  You’re jealous now, I know.

      Nay, pipe, I’ll not leave thee;
        For of thy gifts there’s one
      That’s passing dear to me
        Whose equal she’d have none,—­
  The gift of peace serene; she’d have, alas, a tongue!

WALTER LITTLEFIELD.

A SONG WITHOUT A NAME.

AIR:  “THE VICAR OF BRAY.”

  ’Twas in Queen Bess’s golden days
    That smoking came in fashion;
  And from the court it quickly spread
    Throughout the English nation. 
  The courtiers first the lesson learnt,
    And burn’d the fragrant treasure;
  And e’en the queen herself, ’tis said,
    Would sometimes share the pleasure. 
  But this is true, I will maintain,—­
    And I am far from joking,—­
  Of all the pleasures men have found
    There’s none to equal smoking.

  Then learned men and lawyers wise
    And grave divines and doctors
  Found smoking help’d to clear the brain,
    And puff’d away in flocks, sirs;
  Then business men and humble clerks
    And laborer and peasant
  By smoking care would drive away,
    And make this life more pleasant. 
  For this is true.  I will maintain,—­
    And I am far from joking,—­
  Of all the pleasures men have found
    There’s none to equal smoking.

  And from these times we modern men
    Great glory do inherit,
  And wealth and learning and the strength
    Which makes the English spirit. 
  We have no care, we fear no foe,
    We pass our lifetime gayly,
  But little think how much we owe
    To great Sir Walter Raleigh. 
  For this is true, I will maintain,—­
    And I am far from joking,—­
  Of all the pleasures men have found
    There’s none to equal smoking.

W. LLOYD.

AD NICOTINA.

“A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE.”

  Let others sing the praise of wine;
    I’ll tolerate no queen
  But one fair nymph of spotless line,
    The gentle Nicotine. 
  Her breath’s as sweet as any flower’s,
    No matter where it blows,
  And makes this dull old world of ours
    The color of the rose.

  There’s not a pang but she can soothe,
    Nor spell but she can break,
  And e’en the hardest lot can smooth,
    And bid us courage take. 
  Fair Nicotine! thou dost atone
    For many an aching heart;
  And I for one will gladly own
    The magic of thine art.