When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets out wild oats to sow, He puffs a stiff and stark cigar, And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co. He likes not smoking yet; but though Tobacco makes him sick indeed, Cigars and wine he can’t forego:―― A slave is each man to the weed. In time his tastes more dainty are, And delicate. Become a beau, From out the country of the Czar He brings his cigarettes, and lo! He sips the vintage of Bordeaux. Thus keener relish shall succeed The baser liking we outgrow:―― A slave is each man to the weed. When age and his own lucky star To him perfected wisdom show, The schooner glides across the bar, And beer for him shall freely flow, A pipe with genial warmth shall glow; To which he turns in direst need, To seek in smoke surcease of woe:―― A slave is each man to the weed. ENVOI. Smokers! who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to drink, take heed! And see in smoke a friendly foe:―― A slave is each man to the weed. BRANDER MATTHEWS. From Mr. Gleeson White’s collection of _Ballades and Rondeaus_. London, Walter Scott, 1887. ―――― IN A CLOUD OF SMOKE. _A Rondel._ In a cloud of smoke when the lights are low I half forget that I’m nearly “broke,” And my cares and my sorrows they seem to go In a cloud of smoke. Ah, yes! ’tis a mystical “Basingstoke,”[25] That guides my thoughts to a saner flow So a fig to the Anti-Tobacco folk! _Her_ tongue has no “measured beat and slow;” She says that in fumes narcotic I soak; But her withering scorn seems to softer grow In a cloud of smoke. From _Judy_. April 18, 1888. ―――― WITH PIPE AND BOOK. With Pipe and Book at close of day, O! what is sweeter, mortal, say? It matters not what book on knee, Old Izaak or the Odyssey, It matters not meerschaum or clay. And though our eyes will dream astray, And lips forget to sue or sway, It is “enough to merely _Be_,” With Pipe and Book. What though our modern skies be grey, As bards aver, I will not pray For “soothing death” to “succour” me, But ask thus much, O! Fate, of thee, A little longer yet to stay With Pipe and Book. From _Volumes in Folio_. By Richard Le Gallienne, author of “My Ladies’ Sonnets,” etc. London, Elkin Matthews, Vigo Street, W. 1889. A dainty little Volume of Bookish Verses. ―――― LINES ON AN EMPTY TOBACCO-POUCH. I, who was brisk and R T once, Am C D now; become a dunce. If U the reason would descry, I’ll very quickly tell U Y.