’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s Left lying alone; All his dark brown Regalias Are vanished and gone. No cigar of its colour, No “Lopez” is mine, To delight with its perfume And fragrance divine. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! I’ll ring for a light; Thy companions are ashes, I’ll smoke thee to-night. Thy halo and incense Shall rise o’er my head, As I sigh for the beauties All scentless and dead. And soon may I follow Those lov’d ones’ decay; Since from each tempting bundle They’ve faded away. When Regalias are smok’d out, And “Lopez” are blown, Oh! who would still linger, Cigarless, alone? From _Hints to Freshmen, in the University of Oxford_. ―――― A LAST CIGAR. ’Tis my last mild Havana Pervading the room; Her companions have taken Their _leaves_ in a fume. No kindred _to back her_, Nor plug, twist, nor snuff, To return her aroma Or give puff for puff. Oh, fain would I follow When the last whiff is sped, And in life’s brightest garden The _weeds_ are all dead. When troubles oppress us, Or better-halves jar, Oh, what were existence Without a cigar? ――――:o:―――― THE BUTCHER BOY. The butcher boy down the road has gone, With beefsteak he has lined him; A pipe of clay he has put on, And his basket’s slung behind him. “Lend me that,” cried the baker’s boy, “The pipe you now are biting,” “Not I,” cried he, “my pipe I’ll guard!” And so they fell to fighting. The butcher fell, but the baker’s boy, Could not bring his proud soul under; The pipe he loved ne’er smoked again, For he broke its stem asunder; And cried, “No dough shall sully thee, I’ll be thy undertaker; Thy joys were made for the butcher boy―― Thou shalt ne’er be smoked by a baker!” H. L. From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. July. 1873. ―――― MY OLD DHUDEEN. (Air: _Love’s Young Dream_.) Oh! the days are gone when lollipops My heart could move; When sugar-sticks and almond rock Were my first love; Inventions sweet And succulent, Made childhood all serene; Now there’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen; Yes, there’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen. For the youth will tire at last of sweets When “down” appears, And he wears a collar in the streets That hides his ears: The vile “Pickwick” May make him sick, And turn his face quite green, Yet there’s nothing half so sweet in life As his old Dhudeen; Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life As his old Dhudeen.