For the good that the future may bring,
We strive to exist to-day.
With the veering vane we swing,
When fate sweeps fortune away:
Seldom will misery slay;
And ever will hope allure;
Yet one thing endureth for aye,
For death there is no cure!
Though life be an exquisite thing,
Death shatters the curious clay;
Though in frenzy we cry and we cling,
There is none who can save us that day:
So life is devoured as a prey,
And in darkness for aye will immure;
And silence for ever hath sway:
For death there is no cure!
Envoi.
O man, be ye sad, be ye gay,
In the end there is one thing sure:
Make out of life what ye may,
For death there is no cure!
Hunter MacCulloch.
THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.
When verdant youth sees life afar,
And first sets out wild oats to sow,
He puffs a stiff and stark cigar,
And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co.
He likes not smoking yet; but though
Tobacco makes him sick indeed,
Cigars and wine he can't forego:—
A slave is each man to the weed.
In time his tastes more dainty are,
And delicate. Become a beau,
From out the country of the Czar
He brings his cigarettes, and lo!
He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.
Thus keener relish shall succeed
The baser liking we outgrow:—
A slave is each man to the weed.
When age and his own lucky star
To him perfected wisdom show,
The schooner glides across the bar,
And beer for him shall freely flow,
A pipe with genial warmth shall glow;
To which he turns in direst need,
To seek in smoke surcease of woe:—
A slave is each man to the weed.