Pipe and Pouch: The Smoker's Own Book of Poetry

by Unknown

TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED.

Tobacco's but an Indian weed,

Grows green at morn, cut down at eve;

It shows decay; we are but clay;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The pipe that is so lily white,

Wherein so many take delight,

Is broke with a touch,—man's life is such;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The pipe that is so foul within

Shows how man's soul is stained with sin,

And then the fire it doth require;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The ashes that are left behind

Do serve to put us all in mind

That unto dust return we must;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The smoke that does so high ascend

Shews us man's life must have an end;

The vapor's gone,—man's life is done;

Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

From "Pills to Purge Melancholy."

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