I never see the _Post_, I seldom read the _Star_; _The Globe_ I scarcely heed, So I have my cigar. They tell me that Bank stock Is sunk much under par; It’s all the same to me, So I have my cigar. Honours have come to men My juniors at the Bar; No matter I can wait, So I have my cigar. Ambition frets me not, A cab or glory’s car Are just the same to me, So I have my cigar. I worship no vain gods, But serve the household Lar, I’m sure to be at home, So I have my cigar. I do not seek for fame, A General with a scar; A private let me be, So I have my cigar. To have my choice among The toys of life’s bazaar, The deuce may take them all, So I have my cigar. Some minds are often tost By tempests like a tar; I always seem in port So I have my cigar. The ardent flame of love My bosom cannot char, I smoke, but do not burn, So I have my cigar. They tell me Nancy Low Has married Mr. Parr; The Jilt! but I can live, So I have my cigar. THOMAS HOOD. ―――― THE CIGAR SONG. The sky it was dark, and the way it was long, When I mounted his Majesty’s Mail; And I tried to chirrup a cheery song In the teeth of the wind and the hail;―― But it wouldn’t do――so on night’s dark face I said there should glitter _one_ star; And I took from snug sleep in its own cozy case, And lit up into life a cigar. And then, as its sweet breath came forth with good-will, The sky didn’t look half so gruff; ’Till I felt like a player or poet, who still Gets more happy at every puff. And said I to myself, since mere vapour thus soothes, Why should men their bliss ever mar? Life’s cold spots it warms, and its rough places smoothes, And each pleasure is but a cigar! But――like Hope, self-consuming before its own fire―― It silently wasted away; And I was too happy to stop to inquire If there was such a thing as decay. It was gone! and I could not another one light! But the lesson in love’s stronger far; Ere the embers of one flame have ceased to be bright, Light another――just like a cigar! From _The Chameleon_, published anonymously by Longmans, Rees & Co., London, 1833 Ascribed to T. Atkinson. ―――― THE SMOKERS. Smoke, do you? Well, then, sir, you know How fast and firm these habits grow; You’ve often doubtless sworn to quit, And then forgot it till you’d lit A fresh cigar, and caught the smell Of that which pleases you so well. You’ve doubtless looked into your purse And counted cost with many a curse, And read of dread diseases caught By smoking oftener than you ought; And vowed at least that you’d curtail The cost and danger, but to fail.