In shag, bird’s eye, or honey-dew, His mind is ever fast; And Satan knows to him he’s due, For he’ll get him at last. ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE LAST PIPE. T’was the voice of the doctor, I heard him declare, “You’ve been smoking too much, of tobacco beware! To be candid and plain you’ll find it no joke, For you’ll become _ashes_ yourself if you smoke.” So I’ve filled my last pipe as I sit by the fire, And gaze at the cloud rising higher and higher, And languidly watching each up-curling ring, A mournful adieu to tobacco I sing. Farewell, good cigars, I will e’en call you dear, Yet your price were no object so you were still here. Good bye! Latakia, Mild Turkey, good by! Virginia, Cavendish, Bristol Bird’s-eye, And my pipe! My sweet pipe, with thy cool amber tip! No more shall that amber caress my fond lip. Oh! friend of my youth! must thou really go―― My partner in joy, and my solace in woe? ’Tis too true; nought avail me these heart-broken sighs! And, alas! thou art out. There are tears in my eyes, As I lay thee down gently. I will not complain, But I feel I shall never be happy again. _Fun_, 1870. ――――:o:―――― THE PIPE. A Parody of Barry Cornwall’s “_The Sea, the Sea!_” The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe! The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe! Its odorous puffs without a sound, They float my head’s wide regions round; They rise in clouds and mock the skies, While _Baccy_ snugly eradled lies. My hookah wide! my hookah deep! I’ve that which I would ever keep; With the smoke above, and smoke below, And smoke wheresoe’er I go. If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing. What matters, &c. I love――oh! how I love to smoke, And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak! And when its waves have drowned my soul, I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!” Don’t ask me where the world is going, Nor why the sou’-west _blast_ is blowing. I never breathed the dull tame air, But I relish my great pipe mair and mair, And back again flew for a soothing puff, Like a bird――I’m sure that’s quick enough. My _mother_ it is, and I’ll prove it to ye, (Much more of a mother than the open sea!) For _smoking_, I’m at it ever and ever! I hope your comment on this line is “clever!” For fear of growing at all lackadaisical I hasten to lay down my pen _parody_-sical; In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat ’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon, These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on. From _The Individual_. Cambridge, January 31, 1837. ――――:o:―――― A DREAM (ANTI-CIPATED). (_After Kingsley._)