THE BETROTHED
"You must choose between me and your cigar"—
Breach of Promise case, circa 1885.
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarreled about Havanas—we fought o'er a good cheroot—
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space,
In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie's a loving lass.
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay,
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away—
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown—
But I never could throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
Maggie, my wife at fifty—gray and dour and old—
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold.
And the light of Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar—