Volume 102 — TO MY CIGARETTE.

My own, my loved, my Cigarette, My dainty joy disguised in tissue, What fate can make your slave regret The day when first he dared to kiss you? I had smoked briars, like to most Who joy in smoking, and had been a Too ready prey to those who boast Their bonded stores of Reina Fina. In honeydew had steeped my soul Had been of cherry pipes a cracker, And watched the creamy meerschaum's bowl Grow weekly, daily, hourly blacker. Read CALVERLEY and learnt by heart The lines he celebrates the weed in; And blew my smoke in rings, an art That many try, but few succeed in. In fact of nearly every style Of smoke I was a kindly critic, Though I had found Manillas vile, And Trichinopolis mephitic. The stout tobacco-jar became Within my smoking-room a fixture; I heard my friends extol by name Each one his own peculiar mixture. And tried them every one in turn (O varium, tobacco, semper!); The strong I found too apt to burn My tongue, the week to try my temper. And all were failures, and I grew More tentative and undecided, Consulted friends, and found they knew As little as or less than I did. Havannah yielded up her pick Of prime cigars to my fruition; I bought a case, and some went "sick." The rest were never in condition. Until in sheer fatigue I turned To you, tobacco's white-robed tyro, And from your golden legend learned Your maker dwelt and wrought in Cairo. O worshipped wheresoe'er I roam, As fondly as a wife by some is, Waif from the far Egyptian home Of Pharaohs, crocodiles, and mummies; Beloved, in spite of jeer and frown; The more the Philistines assail you, The more the doctors run you down, The more I puff you—and inhale you. Though worn with toil and vexed with strife (Ye smokers all, attend and hear me), Undaunted still I live my life, With you, my Cigarette, to cheer me.