You buy two where ’twas six before―― But go more often to the store; You storm and reason with yourself, And put your box back on the shelf, But, in whatever place you are, Your thoughts are with your shelved cigar. How weak this proves strong men to be! Free, yet in hopeless slavery! The thought is madness to the mind; We’ll burst these galling chains that bind! But, ere, my friend, we go too far, I’ll thank you for a fresh cigar. COLUMBUS DISPATCH. ―――― TO MY CIGAR. (_Translated from the German of Friedrich Marc._) The warmth of thy glow, Well lighted cigar Makes happy thoughts flow, And drives sorrow afar. The stronger the wind blows The brighter thou burnest, The dreariest of life’s woes Less gloomy thou turnest. As I feel on my lip Thy unselfish kiss, Like thy flame colour’d tip, All is rosy-hued bliss. No longer does sorrow, Lay weight on my heart, And all fears of the morrow In joy dreams depart. Sweet cheerer of sadness Life’s own happy star! I greet thee with gladness My precious cigar! ―――― HIS FIRST CIGAR. A small boy puffed at a big cigar His eyes bulged out and his cheeks sank in: He gulped rank fumes with his lips ajar, While muscles shook in his youthful chin. His gills were green, but he smole a smile; He sat high up on the farmyard stile, And cocked his hat o’er his glassy eye, Then wunk a wink at a cow near by. The earth swam round, but the stile stood still, The trees rose up and the kid crawled down He groaned aloud for he felt so ill, And knew that cigar had “done him brown.” His head was light, and his feet like lead, His cheeks grew white as a linen spread, While he weakly gasped, as he gazed afar, “If I live, this here’s my last cigar.” ―――― MY LAST CIGAR. The mighty Thebes, and Babylon the great, Imperial Rome, in turn, have bowed to fate; So this great world, and each particular star, Must all burn out, like you, my last cigar: A puff――a transient fire, that ends in smoke, And all that’s given to man――that bitter joke―― Youth, Hope, and Love, three whiffs of passing zest Then come the ashes, and the long, long rest. From _Nicotiana_, by Henry James Meller. London. Effingham Wilson. 1832. ―――― ODE TO MY CIGAR. Yes, social friend, I love thee well. In learned doctors’ spite; Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, And lap me in delight. What though they tell, with phizzes long, My years are sooner passed? I would reply, with reason strong. “They’re sweeter while they last.” And oft, mild friend, to me, thou art A monitor, though still; Thou speak’st a lesson to my heart, Beyond the preacher’s skill.