In short, my sole delight
(Why, pipe, you sputter so!),
Whose angel visage bright
(And at me ashes throw!)
Shall never rival fear. You're jealous now, I know.
Nay, pipe, I'll not leave thee;
For of thy gifts there's one
That's passing dear to me
Whose equal she'd have none,--
The gift of peace serene; she'd have, alas, a tongue!
WALTER LITTLEFIELD.
A SONG WITHOUT A NAME.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_."
'Twas in Queen Bess's golden days
That smoking came in fashion;
And from the court it quickly spread
Throughout the English nation.
The courtiers first the lesson learnt,
And burn'd the fragrant treasure;
And e'en the queen herself, 'tis said,
Would sometimes share the pleasure.
But this is true, I will maintain,--
And I am far from joking,--
Of all the pleasures men have found
There's none to equal smoking.
Then learned men and lawyers wise
And grave divines and doctors
Found smoking help'd to clear the brain,
And puff'd away in flocks, sirs;
Then business men and humble clerks
And laborer and peasant
By smoking care would drive away,
And make this life more pleasant.
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