MY CORN-COB PIPE

  Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars
  The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made cigars;
  But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine,
  And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe of mine.

  It ’s as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in bloom;
  It ’s as dainty as the essence of the daintiest perfume;
  It ’s as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is hanging ripe,
  With the sun’s warm kiss upon them—­is this corn-cob pipe.

  Thro’ the smoke about it clinging, I delight its form to trace,
  Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face;
  And my room is dim with vapour as a church when censers sway,
  As I clasp it to my bosom—­in a figurative way.

  It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in distress,
  And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in success;
  So I hail it as a symbol, friendship’s true and worthy type,
  And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob pipe.

IN AUGUST

  When August days are hot an’ dry,
  When burning copper is the sky,
  I ’d rather fish than feast or fly
  In airy realms serene and high.

  I ’d take a suit not made for looks,
  Some easily digested books,
  Some flies, some lines, some bait, some hooks,
  Then would I seek the bays and brooks.

  I would eschew mine every task,
  In Nature’s smiles my soul should bask,
  And I methinks no more could ask,
  Except—­perhaps—­one little flask.

  In case of accident, you know,
  Or should the wind come on to blow,
  Or I be chilled or capsized, so,
  A flask would be the only go.

  Then could I spend a happy time,—­
  A bit of sport, a bit of rhyme
  (A bit of lemon, or of lime,
  To make my bottle’s contents prime).

  When August days are hot an’ dry,
  I won’t sit by an’ sigh or die,
  I ’ll get my bottle (on the sly)
  And go ahead, and fish, and lie!

THE DISTURBER

  Oh, what shall I do?  I am wholly upset;
  I am sure I ’ll be jailed for a lunatic yet. 
  I ’ll be out of a job—­it’s the thing to expect
  When I ’m letting my duty go by with neglect. 
  You may judge the extent and degree of my plight
  When I ’m thinking all day and a-dreaming all night,
  And a-trying my hand at a rhyme on the sly,
  All on account of a sparkling eye.

  There are those who say men should be strong, well-a-day! 
  But what constitutes strength in a man?  Who shall say? 
  I am strong as the most when it comes to the arm. 
  I have aye held my own on the playground or farm. 
  And when I ’ve been tempted, I haven’t been weak;
  But now—­why, I tremble to hear a maid speak. 
  I used to be bold, but now I ’ve grown shy,
  And all on account of a sparkling eye.