The burden of burnt breeches: Nay, sit down; Cover thyself and sleep; for verily The market women all about the town Behind thy back shall laugh and hoot at thee. Like the red beet-root all thy face shall be; That box of lights set thy coat tails on fire, And burnt thee bare. Tarry till daylight flee. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ The burden of the missus: oh! her tongue Shall let thee rest not, e’en upon thy bed; For that her curtains at the window hung, Of stale smoke smelling, fill her soul with dread. With mutton cold thou shalt be often fed, And drink cold grog, against thy warm desire, And wear a broomstick round thy shrinking head. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ The burden of mean cadgers; thou shalt flee All ways at once, but still they will be seen; And at the thing thou seest thy face shalt be Transmogrified, and not at all serene. And thou shalt say of ’Bacca, “It hath been Consumed by me;” and they shall whisper “Liar;” And go their ways with chagrin turning green. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ The burden of sad Antis: Every day They will prognosticate thy doom, and tell Where thou art going to at last, and say The place is warm and undesirable. And swear that for a mile thy clothes do smell; And preach to thee till thy whole soul doth tire; Then, going, groan――just for a parting knell. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ The burden of the taxes: Spoiled is Spring, With fragrant ’Bacca ’neath the growing trees, To think of what we pay for this one thing, The dearest physic for our miseries. For, at each puff, the weeping smoker sees His wreath fly up, away, and higher, higher, Till thoughts of bankruptcy do make him freeze. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ The burden of the fusees: Some won’t light, And some will spit out fire upon the hands; The wretch who sells them slinketh in the night, And counts his fortune in far, foreign lands Where police are not, and where are no cab-stands, While we still on his head heap curses dire And blame the makers of the various brands. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ The burden of fierce headaches: When we must Forsake the weed, altho’ ’tis our delight, When all our eyes seem red with blinding dust, And on our head a weight hangs day and night, And our red faces, lo! are bloodless white; When nothing in the world we do admire, And folks do ask us when we last were tight. _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ L’ENVOY. Smokers, and ye whom ’Bacca tickleth, Heed what is here before the weed you fire; You cannot smoke for ever. Where’s your breath? _This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._ SINBURN.