MY CIGARETTE.
Ma pauvre petite,
My little sweet,
Why do you cry?
Why this small tear,
So pure and clear,
In each blue eye?
"My cigarette--
I 'm smoking yet?"
(I'll be discreet.)
I toss it, see,
Away from me
Into the street.
You see I do
All things for you.
Come, let us sup.
(But, oh, what joy
To be that boy
Who picked it up.)
TOM HALL.
A BACHELOR'S VIEWS.
A pipe, a book,
A cosy nook,
A fire,--at least its embers;
A dog, a glass:--
'Tis thus we pass
Such hours as one remembers.
Who'd wish to wed?
Poor Cupid's dead
These thousand years, I wager.
The modern maid
Is but a jade,
Not worth the time to cage her.
In silken gown
To "take" the town
Her first and last ambition.
What good is she
To you or me
Who have but a "position"?
So let us drink
To her,--but think
Of him who has to keep her;
And _sans_ a wife
Let's spend our life
In bachelordom,--it's cheaper.
TOM HALL.
PIPES AND BEER.
Before I was famous I used to sit
In a dull old under-ground room I knew,
And sip cheap beer, and be glad for it,
With a wild Bohemian friend or two.
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