II.
My pipe he tastes of cherry now;
Gone, like the foam of wine,
Gone, like the mist from mountain-brow,
Gone is that turpentine.
With the pure herb I feel it blend—
That charm of cherry-wood,
And smoke him six times straight on end,
Because he is so good.
And yet my aunt gets up, and sniffs,
And therewith wags her head;
And warns me in between the whiffs
That I shall soon be dead;
And says excessive smoking must
Debase and bring me low,
She makes herself offensive, just
Because she loves me so.