My pipe he tastes of cherry now;
Gone, like the foam of wine,
Gone, like the mist from mountain-brow,
Gone is that turpentine.
With the pure herb I feel it blend--
That charm of cherry-wood,
And smoke him six times straight on end,
Because he is so good.

And yet my aunt gets up, and sniffs,
And therewith wags her head;
And warns me in between the whiffs
That I shall soon be dead;
And says excessive smoking must
Debase and bring me low,
She makes herself offensive, just
Because she loves me so.

III.

My pipe, he tastes of chocolate,
And he has grown so dear so dear,
That I get up at half-past eight
And smoke till night is here.
My aunt informs me that the smell
Is ranker than before--
I could not love her half so well
Loved I not baccy more.

The female mind! The female mind!