The postman hits his last rat-tat to day, And hies him to his lowly home with glee; My wife reposes in her white array; The night is left to “’Bacca” and to me. Now starts a glimmering bottle on the sight, And all the air a spirit perfume holds; At sight of me the cockroach takes to flight, And leaves awhile my common dips and moulds. All raving now, at yonder area gate, The moping “bobbies” to the cooks complain That soldiers, with their padded breasts elate, Molest their ancient privilege and reign. Beneath this hingeless lid, bound round with braid, Wherein no anti-vermin dare to creep (Each one done brown, aside for ever laid), The ancient tutors of my smoking sleep. The bull-like voice of nicotinian Bob, The sylph-like tones of sweet, poetic, Ned, The fierce denouncings of the anti-mob, No more shall call them from their narrow bed. For them no more the fierce fusee shall burn, Or plugs be purchased and put in with care; In memory only, I to them return; Their smoke, too strong, would all my nerves impair. Oft have they lain with me in some green field; Their solace oft some stiff-neck’d care has broke. How strangely sorrow to the pipe doth yield, And joy descends e’en through ascending smoke. Let not philosophy at smoking mock―― Philosophy is but its prototype; Nor e’en religion hear with spurning shock, The short and simple annals of the pipe. * * * * * Ah me! In this neglected box is laid Old pipes, once glowing with the scented fire; Pipes for which shillings, ay, and pounds were paid. Start not――’tis true, or I’m a living liar! But pipes on pipes of “Bacca,” day by day, With poison laden, did their fates control; Strong-smelling oil stopp’d up the narrow way, And now they may no more console my soul. Full many a pipe, of purest briar root, The stern schoolmaster confiscates and breaks; Full many a clay, too, seized is by the brute, And flung with tops and marbles, buttons, cakes. One colour’d meerschaum that, in hidden poke Conceal’d, full many a day in school did lie, Escaped the notice of the stern-eyed bloke, To linger in this box and never die. To take excursion by the iron way, In smoking-carriage, where thick clouds arise; To fumigate――(tho’ anti-smokers bray), And blow their ashes into people’s eyes―― Their state forbids. Now, circumscribed they lie, For pleasure useless, and for work as well; Weak, helpless, all, I bid them now good-by; For, tho’ so weak, dear me, how strong they smell! For thee, who, brooding thus with bended head, Deploring much their sad and helpless state, If chance, by nicotinian feelings led, Some brother smoker shall inquire thy fate: