There comes the long, low mournful sigh
Of night winds roaming vagrantly;
They see too many sullen sights
This side the stars on winter nights;
A kind of hopeless Jacobites.
—This brand, indeed, smokes fragrantly.
The perfect mixture's far to seek;
Your pure Virginia, pale and meek,
Requires the passion of Perique,
The Latakian lyrics;