Here’s the pipe he used to puff,—
Oh! how that puff o’er came us!
Strasburgh, Tonquin,—both are dry,—
Where’s the hand to soak them?
Pipes around extinguished lie,—
Where’s the lip to smoke them?
Gin may fall, but he who loved
It, ne’er shall feel its cheapness;
Porter pots may be improved,—
Lost on him their deepness.