The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket—
With never a new one to light, though it's charred and black to the socket.
Open the old cigar-box—let me consider awhile;
Here is a mild Manilla—there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counselors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.
This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return,
With only a Suttee's passion—to do their duty and burn.
This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear that my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.
I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
I will scent'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.