The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket,—
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket.
Open the old cigar-box,—let me consider a while,—
Here is a mild Manilla,—there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion,—bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.