My Clay Pipe.
“Thou cheering friend of many a weary hour,
I’ll sing thy virtues in my humble lay;
Oft have I felt thy gentle, soothing power;
I do not scorn thee, though thou art but clay.
Far dearer thou to me than choicest work
From the skill’d products of Italia’s land,
Or rich chibouque of the enamour’d Turk,
With endless tubes, and amber mouthpiece grand.
Companion thou hast been for many a year;