[Illustration]

My own, my loved, my Cigarette,
My dainty joy disguised in tissue,
What fate can make your slave regret
The day when first he dared to kiss you?

I had smoked briars, like to most
Who joy in smoking, and had been a
Too ready prey to those who boast
Their bonded stores of Reina Fina.

In honeydew had steeped my soul
Had been of cherry pipes a cracker,
And watched the creamy meerschaum's bowl
Grow weekly, daily, hourly blacker.

Read CALVERLEY and learnt by heart
The lines he celebrates the weed in;
And blew my smoke in rings, an art
That many try, but few succeed in.

In fact of nearly every style
Of smoke I was a kindly critic,
Though I had found Manillas vile,
And Trichinopolis mephitic.

The stout tobacco-jar became
Within my smoking-room a fixture;