For, tho’ so weak, dear me, how strong they smell!
For thee, who, brooding thus with bended head,
Deploring much their sad and helpless state,
If chance, by nicotinian feelings led,
Some brother smoker shall inquire thy fate:
Haply some wooden-headed clown may say:
“I’ve often seed him, when the ale-house closed,
Wandering along the all-too narrow way,
His eyes a quiver, like to one who dozed;
“There, at the foot of yonder painted sign,