Edward A. Horne.
There is not in the wide club a room that’s so sweet
As the lounge in whose bosom the baccy wreaths meet;
Oh, the last train may go, the last hansom depart,
Ere the charm of the smoke-room shall cease for my heart.
Yet it is not that care has spread over the scene
The easiest chairs in their leather of green;
’Tis not in the sodas and B. that we fill;
Oh, no, there is something more exquisite still.
’Tis that chums of the oldest are all puffing near,