But age comes on, they say, apace,
To warn us of our death,
And wrinkles mar the fairest face,--
At last it stops our breath.
One of these dames tormented sore
With that curst pang, toothache,
Was at a loss for such a bore
What remedy to take.
"I've heard," thought she, "this ill to cure,
A pipe is good, they say.
Well then, tobacco I'll endure,
And smoke the pain away."
The pipe was lit, the tooth soon well,
And she retired to rest,
When then the other ancient belle
Her spinster maid addressed,--
"Let me request a favor, pray"--
"I'll do it if I can"--
"Oh! well, then, love, smoke every day,
_You smell so like a man!_"
Attributed to JOHN STANLEY GREGSON.
AN ODE OF THANKS FOR CERTAIN CIGARS.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._
Luck, my dear Norton, still makes shifts,
To mix a mortal with her gifts,
Which he may find who duly sifts.
Sweets to the sweet,--behold the clue!
Why not, then, new things to the gnu,
And trews to Highland clansmen true?
'Twas thus your kindly thought decreed
These weeds to one who is indeed,
And feels himself, a very weed,--
A weed from which, when bruised and shent,
Though some faint perfume may be rent,
Yet oftener much without a cent.
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