SMOKING SONG.

With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist from the waterfall given, Or the locks that float round beauty's throat In the whispering air of even. Chorus. Then drown the fears of the coming years, And the dread of change before us; The way is sweet to our willing feet, With the smoke-wreaths twining o'er us. As the light beams through the ringlets blue, Will hope beam through our sorrow, While the gathering wreath of the smoke we breathe Shuts out the fear of to-morrow. A magic charm in the evening calm Calls thought from mem'ry's treasure; But clear and bright in the liquid light Are the smoke-called dreams of pleasure. Then who shall chide, with boasting pride, Delights they ne'er have tasted? Oh, let them smile while we beguile The hour with joys they've wasted.