’Tis I have colour’d thy once fair face black;
I could not leave thee now without a tear,
Thou, the last keepsake of my old friend Jack.
He prized thee for thy shape—and then to hear
How oft upon thy merits he hath spoken!
Long may I smoke thee with my evening beer,
My own loved pipe!—Confound it! it is broken!”
On the Pleasure of a Pipe.
Charm of the solitude I love;