Maggie is pretty to look at,—Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay,
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away,—
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown,—
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
Maggie my wife at fifty,—gray and dour and old,—
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!
And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar,—