Oh! the first sly smoke I’ll ne’er forget―― It made me queer; And when I my stern parent met, He pulled my ear; But now I’m old, And weak and cold, And on my stick do lean, There’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen; Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life As my old Dhudeen. H. L. From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. December, 1872. ――――:o:―――― I REMEMBER. (_After Hood._) I remember, I remember, The pipe that first I drew; With red waxed end and snowy bowl, It perfect was and new. It measured just four inches long, ’Twas made of porous clay; I found when I began to smoke, It took my breath away, I remember, I remember, In fear I struck a light; And when I smoked a little time, I felt my cheeks grow white. My nervous system mutinied, My diaphragm uprose, And I was very――very ill In a way you may suppose. I remember, I remember, The very rod he got, When father who discovered me, Made me exceeding hot. He scattered all my feathers then, While, face down I reclined; I sat upon a cold hearthstone, I was so warm behind. I remember, I remember, I viewed the rod with dread, And silent, sad, and supperless, I bundled off to bed. It was a childish punishment, And now ’tis little joy To know that, for the self-same crime, I wallop my own boy! From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. March, 1875. ――――:o:―――― THE OLD BLACK CLAY. I love it! I love it! though some may say It’s wrong to be fond of an old black clay; I haven’t exactly inlaid it with sighs―― The turn of my mind has been otherwise―― For I always feel excessively gay When I’m gazing upon that old black clay. When rude and frivolous folk are by, I never produce it――I’ll tell you why―― They call it harsh, injurious names, And vex my soul with mischievous games; But when to a lonely place I repair, I make quite sure there’s nobody there, And adore in the most abandoned way That stumpy loveable coal-black clay. I’ll never forget the dreadful day When they “played it low” on that harmless clay―― The ruthless hand of a mother dear Hid it away in a dust-hole drear; But, ah! no words can properly tell My joy when I found it again by the smell; And I took to my heart (as one may say), Once more that redolent, long lost clay. I love it! I love it! as I have said, I smoke it abroad, and I smoke it abed; And if the prophecy turn out right That I’m burned to a cinder some fine night, I’ll simply deem it a glorious way Of ending my life with my faithful clay. _The Manchester City Jackdaw._ April 21, 1876. ――――:o:―――― SMOKE NOT!