WRONGFELLOW. _Cope’s Tobacco Plant._ June, 1876. ――――:o:―――― ANOTHER MATCH. (After _A. C. Swinburne_.) If love were dhudeen olden, And I were like the weed, Oh! we would live together, And love the jolly weather, And bask in sunshine golden, Rare pals of choicest breed; If love were dhudeen olden, And I were like the weed. If I were what cigars are, And love were like the case, In double rows or single, Our varied scents we’d mingle, Both brown as Persian shahs are―― (You recollect _his_ face); If I were what cigars are, And love were like the case. If you were snuff, my darling, And I, your love, the box, We’d live and sneeze together, Shut out from all the weather, And anti-snuffers snarling, In neckties orthodox; If you were snuff, my darling, And I, your love, the box. If you were oil essential, And I were nicotine, We’d hatch up wicked treason, And spoil each smoker’s reason, Till he grew penitential, And turned a bilious green; If you were oil essential, And I were nicotine. If you were shag of dark hue, And I were mild bird’s eye, We’d scent the passing hours, And fumigate the flowers; And in the midnight, hark you, The Norfold Howards should die If you were Shag of dark hue, And I were mild Bird’s-eye. If you were the aroma, And I were simply smoke, We’d skyward fly together, As light as any feather; And flying high as Homer, His grey old ghost we’d choke; If you were the aroma, And I were simply smoke. From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. August, 1876. ―――― ANOTHER BALLAD OF MORE BURDENS. (_After Swinburne._) The burden of false meerschaums: Fair to sight Built up by scamps in a most fraudful way, With glass for amber, can’t be seen at night, But looketh what it is in truthful day. And bowls that turn (with dirt) to dirty grey, And narrow bores that all our jaws do tire, And fill our souls with horrible dismay. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ The burden of bad ’Bacca: This is worse. A burden with full fruit of mild swearing: We drop the pipe to drop a gentle curse, Six score between the morn and evening. The quivering of the glands, the shuddering, The wheezy grunts with which we do respire, Makes “weed” seem horrid and a treacherous thing. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._