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.
