My penance o’er, its price is won;—
I blow my after-dinner cloud.
My clay is not a Henry Clay—
I like it better, on the whole;
And when I fill it, I can say
I drown my sorrows in the bowl.
For most I love my lowly pipe
When weary, sad, and leaden-brow’d:
At such a time behold me ripe
To blow my after-dinner cloud.