The miserly elf Who, in hoarding his pelf, Keeps body and soul on the rack, O! Would he bless and be blest He might open his chest, By taking a pipe of tobacco. Life’s short, ’tis agreed So we’ll try from the weed, Of man a brief emblem to tack, O! When his spirit ascends, Die he must――and he ends In dust like a pipe of tobacco! ―――― TO AN OLD PIPE. Once your smoothly-polished face Nestled lightly in a case; ’Twas a jolly, cosy place, I surmise; And a zealous subject blew On your cheeks, until they grew To the fascinating hue Of her eyes. Near a rusty-hilted sword, Now upon my mantle-board, Where my curios are stored, You recline. You were pleasant company when By the scribbling of her pen I was sent the ways of men To repine. Tell me truly (you were there When she ceased that debonair Correspondence and affair)―― I suppose That she laughed and smiled all day; Or did gentle teardrops stray Down her charming, _retrousée_, Little nose? Where the sunbeams, coyly chill, Fall upon the mantel-sill You perpetually will Silence woo; And I fear that she herself, By the little chubby elf, Will be laid upon the shelf, Just as you. DE WITT STERRY. ―――― THE CUTTY. When nobs come oot to walk aboot, And show their shapes to leddies; They’re ne’er without their grand cheroot, For that they think well bred is. And when they meet――no in the street, But aiblins ower a meal like―― Then oot they draw a meerschaum braw, An’ that looks real genteel like. Weel! there’s nae ban on ony man, Let him be braw or sootie; I’ll no debar their grand cigar, But I’ll haud to my cutty. * * * * * The winter’s blast, aft gey an fast, Blaws your genteel cigar oot; My cutty’s fire, with tap o’ wire, Burns no a grain the waur o’t. * * * * * So now I’ll ripe my cutty pipe, And bauldly face rude Boreas; And, as I fill, ower ilka ill, I’ll still haud on victorious. These extracts are taken from _A Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs_. Edinburgh, W. Paterson. 1869. ―――― MY CLAY PIPE. “Thou cheering friend of many a weary hour, I’ll sing thy virtues in my humble lay; Oft have I felt thy gentle, soothing power; I do not scorn thee, though thou art but _clay_. Far dearer thou to me than choicest work From the skill’d products of Italia’s land, Or rich chibouque of the enamour’d Turk, With endless tubes, and amber mouthpiece grand.