THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.

When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and pipe put by, And Smoked and Smoker both alike In dust and ashes lie, What of the Smoker? Whither passed? Ah, will he smoke no more? And will there be no golden cloud Upon the golden shore? Ah! who shall say we cry in vain To Fate upon his hill, For, howsoe'er we ask and ask, He goes on smoking still. But, surely, 'twere a bitter thing If other men pursue Their various earthly joys again Beyond that distant blue, If the poor Smoker might not ply His peaceful passion too. If Indian braves may still up there On merry scalpings go, And buried Britons rise again With arrow and with bow, May not the Smoker hope to take His "cutty" from below? So let us trust; and when at length You lay me 'neath the yew, Forget not, O my friends, I pray, Pipes and tobacco too!