We were sitting at chess as the sun went down;
And he, from his meerschaum's glossy brown,
With a ring of smoke made his king a crown.
The cherry stem, with its amber tip,
Thoughtfully rested on his lip,
As the goblet's rim from which heroes sip.
And, looking out through the early green,
He called on his patron saint, I ween,—
That misty maiden, Saint Nicotine,—
While ever rested that crown so fair,