We'll smoke to _Alma Mater's_ name;
She loves the cloud we raise!
For well she knows the "biggest guns"
Are in the coming days!
We'll smoke the times, the good old times,
When we were called _fire_!
Their light shall blaze in memory,
Till the lamp of life expire!
Then let each smoking pipe be broke,--
Hurrah for coming days!
We'll take a march, a merry march,
To meet the coming days!
H.P. PECK.
TOBACCO.
The Indian weed, withered quite,
Green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The pipe that is so lily-white,
Shows thee to be a mortal wight;
And even such, gone with a touch,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
Thinke thou beholdst the vanity
Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soule defil'd with sin,
And then the fire it doth require.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The ashes that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind,
That unto dust return thou must.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
GEORGE WITHER, 1620.
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