Chapter XIV: Preface (14)

Tube, I love thee as my life;
By thee I mean to chuse a wife,
Tube, thy _colour_ let me find,
In her _skin_ and in her _mind_
Let her have a _shape_ as fine;
Let her breath be sweet as thine:
Let her, when her lips I kiss,
_Burn_ like thee, to give me bliss:
Let her in some _smoke_ or other,
All my failings kindly smother.
Often when my thoughts are _low_,
Send them where they _ought to go_.
When to study I incline
Let her aid be such as thine:
Such as thine her charming pow’r,
In the vacant social hour
Let her live to give delight,
Ever _warm_ and ever _bright_:
Let her deeds, whene’er she dies,
Mount as _incense to the skies_.

From _The Gentleman’s Magazine_. 1757.

――――

TRANSLATION OF A GERMAN SONG.

When my pipe burns bright and clear,
The gods I need not envy here;
And as the smoke fades in the wind,
Our fleeting life it brings to mind.

Noble weed! that comforts life,
And art with calmest pleasures rife;
Heaven grant thee sunshine and warm rain,
And to thy planter health and gain.

Through thee, friend of my solitude,
With hope and patience I’m endued,
Deep sinks thy power within my heart,
And cares and sorrows all depart

Then let non-smokers rail for ever;
Shall their hard words true friends dissever?
Pleasure’s too rare to cast away
My pipe, for what the railers say!

When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me.
When friends are fled, thy presence charms me;
If thou art full, though purse be bare,
I smoke, and cast away all care!

――――

THE PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Why should life in sorrow be spent,
When pleasure points to the road
Wherein each traveller with content
May throw off the ponderous load?

And instead, in ample measure,
Gather fruits too long left ripe;
What’s this world without its pleasure?
What is pleasure but a pipe?

Is it not tobacco dear,
That from the brow fell grief can wipe?
Yes! like them with jolly cheer,
I find pleasure in a pipe.

Some delight in envy ever,
Others avaricious gripe;
Would you know our greatest pleasure?
’Tis a glowing social pipe.

_Two verses omitted._

(Printed by W. J. Shelmerdine, about 1794.)

From Logan’s _Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads_.

――――

LA PIPE DE TABAC.

Contre les chagrins de la vie,
On crie, “Et ab hoc et ab hac;”
Moi, je me crois digne d’envie,
Quand j’ai ma pipe et mon tabac.
Aujourd’hui, changeant de folie,
Et de boussole et d’almanach,
Je préfère fille jolie,
Même à la pipe de tabac.

Le soldat bâille sous la tente,
Le matelot sur le tillac;
Bientot ils out l’âme contente,
Avec la pipe de tabac.
Si pourtant survient une belle
A l’instant le cœur fait tictac,
Et l’amant oublie auprès d’elle
Jusqu’à la pipe de tabac.

Je tiens cette maxime utile
De ce fameux monsieur de Crac:
En campagne, comme à la ville,
Fêtons l’amour et le tabac.
Quand ce grand homme allait en guerre,
Il portait dans son petit sac,
Le doux portrait de sa bergère,
Avec la pipe de tabac.

PIGAULT LEBRUN. (1755-1835.)

――――

CONTENT AND A PIPE.

Contented I sit with my pint and my pipe,
Puffing sorrow and care far away,
And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe
Like smoking and moist’ning our clay;
For, though liquor can banish man’s reason afar,
’Tis only a fool or a sot,
Who with reason or sense would be ever at war,
And don’t know when enough he has got.
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe――and his life but smoke.

Yes, a man and a pipe are much nearer akin
Than has as yet been understood,
For, until with breath they are both fill’d within,
Pray tell me for what are they good?
They, one and the other, composed are of clay,
And, if rightly I tell nature’s plan,
Take but the breath from them both quite away,
The pipe dies and so does the man:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe――and his life but smoke.

Thus I’m told by my pipe that to die is man’s lot,
And, sooner or later, die he must;
For when to the end of life’s journey he’s got,
Like a pipe that’s smoked out――he is dust:
So you, who would wish in your hearts to be gay.
Encourage not strife, care, or sorrow,
Make much of your pipe of tobacco to-day,
For you may be smoked out to-morrow:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe――and his life but smoke.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

LA FEMME ET LA PIPE.

Plains-moi, Philippe, mon ami;
Le sort me traite en ennemi.
Un instant mon âme charmée
Sut se caresser de fumée;
Un instant m’enivra l’amour:
Hélas! tout a fui sans rétour.
Suis-je donc né pour le malheur, Philippe?
J’ai perdu ma femme et j’ai cassé ma pipe.
Ah! combien je regrette ma pipe!

Ma femme était blanche de peau,
Ma pipe était comme un corbeau;
Elle était simple et pas bégueule;
Je m’en servais en brûle-gueule:
Avec elles deux je chauffais
Mon lit, mes doigts et mon palais!
Suis-je donc né pour le malheur, etc.
* * * * *

Quand, par un caprice à blâmer,
Ma femme me faisait fumer,
Moi, j’avais alors un principe;
Je prenais ma blague et ma pipe,
Et, las de fumer au moral,
Je savourais mon caporal.
Suis-je donc né, etc.

Ma femme avait bien des appas,
Et ma pipe n’en manquait pas.
Que sa jupe était bien portée!
Dieu! qu’elle etait bien culottée!
J’embrassais l’une en musulman,
Je fumais l’autre en Allemand.
Suis-je donc né, etc.

_Conclusion Consolante._

――Mon cher Fumard, pour ton chagrin
Il est un baume; c’est du vin!
La femme pour qui tu sanglotes,
Souvent te tirait des carottes,
Et grâce à la pipe, au tabac,
Se desséchait ton estomac.
――Tu crois! allons, verse-moi donc, Philippe,
Verse-moi l’oubli de ma femme et ma pipe!
Ah! pourtant je regrette ma pipe!

――――

A POT AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Some praise taking snuff,
And ’tis pleasant enough,
To those who have got the right knack, oh!
But give me, my boys,
Those exquisite joys,
A pot and a pipe of tobacco.

When fume follows fume
To the top of the room,
In circles pursuing their track, O!
How sweet to inhale
The health-giving gale,
Of a pipe of Virginia tobacco.

Let soldiers, so bold,
For fame, or for gold,
Their enemies cut, slash, and hack, O!
We have fire and smoke
Though all but in joke,
In a peaceable pipe of tobacco.

Should a mistress unkind,
Be inconstant in mind,
And on your affections look black, O!
Let her werritt and tiff
’Twill blow off in a whiff,
If you take but a pipe of tobacco.

The miserly elf
Who, in hoarding his pelf,
Keeps body and soul on the rack, O!
Would he bless and be blest
He might open his chest,
By taking a pipe of tobacco.

Life’s short, ’tis agreed
So we’ll try from the weed,
Of man a brief emblem to tack, O!
When his spirit ascends,
Die he must――and he ends
In dust like a pipe of tobacco!

――――

TO AN OLD PIPE.

Once your smoothly-polished face
Nestled lightly in a case;
’Twas a jolly, cosy place,
I surmise;
And a zealous subject blew
On your cheeks, until they grew
To the fascinating hue
Of her eyes.

Near a rusty-hilted sword,
Now upon my mantle-board,
Where my curios are stored,
You recline.
You were pleasant company when
By the scribbling of her pen
I was sent the ways of men
To repine.

Tell me truly (you were there
When she ceased that debonair
Correspondence and affair)――
I suppose
That she laughed and smiled all day;
Or did gentle teardrops stray
Down her charming, _retrousée_,
Little nose?

Where the sunbeams, coyly chill,
Fall upon the mantel-sill
You perpetually will
Silence woo;
And I fear that she herself,
By the little chubby elf,
Will be laid upon the shelf,
Just as you.

DE WITT STERRY.

――――

THE CUTTY.

When nobs come oot to walk aboot,
And show their shapes to leddies;
They’re ne’er without their grand cheroot,
For that they think well bred is.

And when they meet――no in the street,
But aiblins ower a meal like――
Then oot they draw a meerschaum braw,
An’ that looks real genteel like.

Weel! there’s nae ban on ony man,
Let him be braw or sootie;
I’ll no debar their grand cigar,
But I’ll haud to my cutty.

* * * * *

The winter’s blast, aft gey an fast,
Blaws your genteel cigar oot;
My cutty’s fire, with tap o’ wire,
Burns no a grain the waur o’t.

* * * * *

So now I’ll ripe my cutty pipe,
And bauldly face rude Boreas;
And, as I fill, ower ilka ill,
I’ll still haud on victorious.

These extracts are taken from _A Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs_. Edinburgh, W. Paterson. 1869.

――――

MY CLAY PIPE.

“Thou cheering friend of many a weary hour,
I’ll sing thy virtues in my humble lay;
Oft have I felt thy gentle, soothing power;
I do not scorn thee, though thou art but _clay_.

Far dearer thou to me than choicest work
From the skill’d products of Italia’s land,
Or rich chibouque of the enamour’d Turk,
With endless tubes, and amber mouthpiece grand.

Companion thou hast been for many a year;
’Tis I have colour’d thy once fair face black;
I could not leave thee now without a tear,
Thou, the last keepsake of my old friend Jack.

He prized thee for thy shape――and then to hear
How oft upon thy merits he hath spoken!
Long may I smoke thee with my evening beer,
My own loved pipe!――Confound it! it is broken!”

――――

ON THE PLEASURE OF A PIPE.

Charm of the solitude I love;
My pleasing, my glowing stove!
My head of rheum is purged by thee;
My heart of vain anxiety.
Tobacco! favourite of my soul!
When round my head thy vapours roll;
When lost in air they vanish too,
An emblem of my life I view.
I view, and, hence instructed, learn
To what myself shall shortly turn:
Myself, a kindled coal to-day,
That wastes in smoke, and flees away.
Swiftly as these――confusing thought――
Alas! I vanish into naught.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. December, 1871.

――――

LA PIPE.

Je suis la pipe d’un auteur;
On voit, à contempler ma mine
D’Abyssinienne ou de Cafrine,
Que mon maitre est un grand fumeur.

Quand il est comblé de douleur,
Je fume comme la chaumine
Où se prépare la cuisine
Pour le retour du laboureur.

J’enlace et je berce son âme
Dans le réseau mobile et bleu
Qui monte de ma bouche en feu,

Et je roule un puissant dictame
Qui charme son cœur et guérit
De ses fatiques son esprit.

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE.

_Translation of the above._

A Poet’s pipe am I;
And my Abyssinian tint
Is an unmistakable hint
That he lays me not often by,

When his soul is with grief o’erworn,
I smoke like the cottage where
They are cooking the evening fare
For the labourer’s return.

I enfold and cradle his soul
In the vapour moving and blue
That mounts from my fiery mouth;

And there is power in my bowl
To charm his spirit and soothe,
And heal his weariness too.

RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.

――――

MY DARLING PIPE.

Pipe, my darling,
Fate is snarling――
Let her snarl.

Thou art my love
Thee do I love
Best of all.

In thy kisses,
Truest blisses
Ever dwell.

Faithful ever,
Pouting never――
Ah! ’tis well,

Pipe, my darling,
Fate is snarling――
Let her snarl

――――:o:――――

MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.

Some sombre evening, when I sit
And feed in solitude at home,
Perchance an ultra-bilious fit
Paints all the world an orange chrome.
When Fear, and Care, and grim Despair,
Flock round me in a ghostly crowd,
One charm dispels them all in air;――
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

’Tis melancholy to devour
The gentle chop in loneliness.
I look on six――my prandial hour――
With dread not easy to express.
And yet, for every penance done,
Due compensation seems allow’d,
My penance o’er, its price is won;――
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

My clay is _not_ a Henry Clay――
I like it better, on the whole;
And when I fill it, I can say
I drown my sorrows in the bowl.
For most I love my lowly pipe
When weary, sad, and leaden-brow’d:
At such a time behold me ripe
To blow my after-dinner cloud.

As gracefully the smoke ascends
In columns from the weed beneath,
My friendly wizard, Fancy lends
A vivid shape to every wreath.
Strange memories of life or death,
Up from the cradle to the shroud,
Come forth as, with enchanter’s breath,
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

What wonder if it stills my care
To quit the present for the past;
And summon back the things that were,
Which only thus in vapour last?
What wonder if I envy not
The rich, the giddy, and the proud,
Contented in this quiet spot
To blow my after-dinner cloud?

From _Gillott and Goosequill_. By Henry S. Leigh. London, British Publishing Company. 1871.

MY THREE LOVES.

When Life was all a summer day,
And I was under twenty,
Three loves were scattered in my way――
And three at once are plenty.
Three hearts, if offered with a grace,
One thinks not of refusing.
The task in this especial case
Was only that of choosing.
I knew not which to make my pet――
My pipe, cigar, or cigarette.

To cheer my night or glad my day
My pipe was ever willing;
The meerschaum or the lowly clay
Alike repaid the filling.
Grown men delight in blowing clouds,
As boys in blowing bubbles,
Our cares to puff away in crowds,
And banish all our troubles.
My pipe I nearly made my pet,
Above cigar or cigarette.

A tiny paper, tightly rolled
About some Latakia,
Contains within its magic fold
A mighty _panacea_.
Some thought of sorrow or of strife
At ev’ry whiff will vanish;
And all the scenery of life
Turn picturesquely Spanish.
But still I could not quite forget
Cigar and pipe for cigarette.

To yield an after-dinner puff
O’er _demi-tasse_ and brandy,
No cigarettes are strong enough
No pipes are ever handy.
However fine may be the feed,
It only moves my laughter
Unless a dry delicious weed
Appears a little after.
A prime cigar I firmly set
Above a pipe or cigarette.

But, after all, I try in vain
To fetter my opinion;
Since each upon my giddy brain
Has boasted a dominion.
Comparisons I’ll not provoke,
Lest _all_ should be offended.
Let this discussion end in smoke,
As many more have ended.
And each I’ll make a special pet;
My pipe, cigar, and cigarette.

HENRY S. LEIGH.

_The London Magazine._ November, 1875.

――――

ODE TO MY PIPE.

My pipe to me, thro’ gloom and glee,
Has been my faithful friend;
I sit and _smoke_――not sit and soak,
For that I can’t commend.

Bird’s eye, returns, or shag that burns
Most freely and most bright;
This Indian weed, it is, indeed,
My solace and delight.

Some people say it steals away
The brain, till all is bare,
But they are foes, or _chiefly_ those
Who’ve got no brains to spare.

Great Doctor Parr, bright learning’s star,
A scholar rare and ripe,
Would sit and puff, through smooth and rough,
Enraptured with his pipe.

My pipe I’ll fill, and smoke I will,
Though all the world condemn;
And if I die burnt black and dry,
Pray, what is that to them?

_The Echo._ February 16, 1889.

――――

WHO SCORNS THE PIPE.

Who scorns the pipe? Show me the man,
I do not mention “glasses,”
He’s writhing under social ban
The jink his soul compasses――
Old friend Tobacco!

Ye carping souls, who, envious, doom
The weed to dire perdition,
Just take a whiff――dispel the gloom
That clouds your mental vision――
Of rare Tobacco!

――――:o:――――

MOTTO FOR A TOBACCO JAR.

Come! don’t refuse sweet Nicotina’s aid,
But woo the goddess through a yard of clay;
And soon you’ll own she is the fairest maid
To stifle pain and drive old Care away.
Nor deem it waste, what though to ash she burns,
If for your outlay you get good Returns!

Some time since, in _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_, there was a competition for the best inscription for a Tobacco Jar. The first and second prizes were awarded to the following, and many others were printed:――

_First._

INSCRIPTION FOR A TOBACCO JAR.

Three hundred year ago or soe,
Ane worthye knight and gentleman
Did bring mee here, to charm and cheer
Ye physical and mental man.
God rest his soul, who filled ye bowl,
And may our blessings find him;
That hee not miss some share of bliss,
Who left soe much behind him!

YE SMOKE JACK (BERNARD BARKER).

_Second._

Keep me at hand, and as my fumes arise
You’ll find a _jar_ the gates of Paradise.

THE CIGAR.

Some sigh for this and that;
My wishes don’t go far;
The world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.

Some fret themselves to death
With Whig and Tory jar,
I don’t care which is in,
So I have my cigar.

Sir John requests my vote
And so does Mr. Marr;
I don’t care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.

Some want a German row,
Some wish a Russian war,
I care not――I’m at peace,
So I have my cigar.

I never see the _Post_,
I seldom read the _Star_;
_The Globe_ I scarcely heed,
So I have my cigar.

They tell me that Bank stock
Is sunk much under par;
It’s all the same to me,
So I have my cigar.

Honours have come to men
My juniors at the Bar;
No matter I can wait,
So I have my cigar.

Ambition frets me not,
A cab or glory’s car
Are just the same to me,
So I have my cigar.

I worship no vain gods,
But serve the household Lar,
I’m sure to be at home,
So I have my cigar.

I do not seek for fame,
A General with a scar;
A private let me be,
So I have my cigar.

To have my choice among
The toys of life’s bazaar,
The deuce may take them all,
So I have my cigar.

Some minds are often tost
By tempests like a tar;
I always seem in port
So I have my cigar.

The ardent flame of love
My bosom cannot char,
I smoke, but do not burn,
So I have my cigar.

They tell me Nancy Low
Has married Mr. Parr;
The Jilt! but I can live,
So I have my cigar.

THOMAS HOOD.

――――

THE CIGAR SONG.

The sky it was dark, and the way it was long,
When I mounted his Majesty’s Mail;
And I tried to chirrup a cheery song
In the teeth of the wind and the hail;――
But it wouldn’t do――so on night’s dark face
I said there should glitter _one_ star;
And I took from snug sleep in its own cozy case,
And lit up into life a cigar.

And then, as its sweet breath came forth with good-will,
The sky didn’t look half so gruff;
’Till I felt like a player or poet, who still
Gets more happy at every puff.
And said I to myself, since mere vapour thus soothes,
Why should men their bliss ever mar?
Life’s cold spots it warms, and its rough places smoothes,
And each pleasure is but a cigar!

But――like Hope, self-consuming before its own fire――
It silently wasted away;
And I was too happy to stop to inquire
If there was such a thing as decay.

It was gone! and I could not another one light!
But the lesson in love’s stronger far;
Ere the embers of one flame have ceased to be bright,
Light another――just like a cigar!

From _The Chameleon_, published anonymously by Longmans, Rees & Co., London, 1833 Ascribed to T. Atkinson.

――――

THE SMOKERS.

Smoke, do you? Well, then, sir, you know
How fast and firm these habits grow;
You’ve often doubtless sworn to quit,
And then forgot it till you’d lit
A fresh cigar, and caught the smell
Of that which pleases you so well.

You’ve doubtless looked into your purse
And counted cost with many a curse,
And read of dread diseases caught
By smoking oftener than you ought;
And vowed at least that you’d curtail
The cost and danger, but to fail.

You buy two where ’twas six before――
But go more often to the store;
You storm and reason with yourself,
And put your box back on the shelf,
But, in whatever place you are,
Your thoughts are with your shelved cigar.

How weak this proves strong men to be!
Free, yet in hopeless slavery!
The thought is madness to the mind;
We’ll burst these galling chains that bind!
But, ere, my friend, we go too far,
I’ll thank you for a fresh cigar.

COLUMBUS DISPATCH.

――――

TO MY CIGAR.

(_Translated from the German of Friedrich Marc._)

The warmth of thy glow,
Well lighted cigar
Makes happy thoughts flow,
And drives sorrow afar.

The stronger the wind blows
The brighter thou burnest,
The dreariest of life’s woes
Less gloomy thou turnest.

As I feel on my lip
Thy unselfish kiss,
Like thy flame colour’d tip,
All is rosy-hued bliss.

No longer does sorrow,
Lay weight on my heart,
And all fears of the morrow
In joy dreams depart.

Sweet cheerer of sadness
Life’s own happy star!
I greet thee with gladness
My precious cigar!

――――

HIS FIRST CIGAR.

A small boy puffed at a big cigar
His eyes bulged out and his cheeks sank in:
He gulped rank fumes with his lips ajar,
While muscles shook in his youthful chin.
His gills were green, but he smole a smile;
He sat high up on the farmyard stile,
And cocked his hat o’er his glassy eye,
Then wunk a wink at a cow near by.

The earth swam round, but the stile stood still,
The trees rose up and the kid crawled down
He groaned aloud for he felt so ill,
And knew that cigar had “done him brown.”
His head was light, and his feet like lead,
His cheeks grew white as a linen spread,
While he weakly gasped, as he gazed afar,
“If I live, this here’s my last cigar.”

――――

MY LAST CIGAR.

The mighty Thebes, and Babylon the great,
Imperial Rome, in turn, have bowed to fate;
So this great world, and each particular star,
Must all burn out, like you, my last cigar:
A puff――a transient fire, that ends in smoke,
And all that’s given to man――that bitter joke――
Youth, Hope, and Love, three whiffs of passing zest
Then come the ashes, and the long, long rest.

From _Nicotiana_, by Henry James Meller. London. Effingham Wilson. 1832.

――――

ODE TO MY CIGAR.

Yes, social friend, I love thee well.
In learned doctors’ spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner passed?
I would reply, with reason strong.
“They’re sweeter while they last.”

And oft, mild friend, to me, thou art
A monitor, though still;
Thou speak’st a lesson to my heart,
Beyond the preacher’s skill.

Thou’rt like the man of worth who gives
To goodness every day,
The odour of whose virtues lives
When he has passed away.

When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O’er history’s varied page I pore,
Man’s fate in thine I see.

Oft, as thy snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus trembled to decay.

Awhile, like thee, earth’s masters burn,
And smoke and fume around,
And then like thee to ashes turn
And mingle with the ground.

Life’s but a leaf adroitly rolled,
And time’s the wasting breath,
That late or early we behold
Gives all to dusky death.

From beggar’s frieze to monarch’s robe
One common doom is passed;
Sweet nature’s work, the swelling globe,
Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now?
A little moving heap,
That soon like thee to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus, when my body must lie low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

From _The New York Tobacco Plant_.

――――

MY FIRST CIGAR.

As the years vanish, darling,
Time, with the sponge of Fate,
Wipes the events we cherish
Cleanly from Memory’s slate;
E’en the first pair of * *
That I put on, I vow,
I have forgot their colour,
Their cut and their pattern now;
When did the dawning whisker
Sprout on my boyish face?
When did my soaring treble
Change to a manly bass?
I have forgotten, darling,
I have forgotten――but, ah!
One memory ever will haunt me――
The taste of my First Cigar!

Not in fair Cuba, darling,
Under a sun of gold;
Or down in old Virginny
Were those brown leaves enrolled,
But from the English cabbage
Sprang the enchanting weed
In a Whitechapel cellar,
Moulded and made, indeed;
I cannot tell you, darling,
How my heart thrill’d with glee,
As down on the shiny counter
Planked I my last two _d._,
And the fair girl who served me,
Lounging behind the bar,
Handed across the beer-pulls
A light for my First Cigar.

Moments of dire upheaval,
Darling, your boy has known,
When salmon for supper unsettled
Sadly his system’s tone,
When at two a.m. on the doorstep
He has stood, with a vacant smile,
Two bob and a toothpick in pocket,
And wearing a stranger’s tile,――
And oft on the billowy ocean,
His anguish has naught assuaged,
When there was a run on the brandy,
And the basins were all engaged,――
But even these pangs, my darling,
Are not to be held on a par
With the writhe, and the rack, and the riot,
That followed my First Cigar.

CLO. GRAVES.

From _Hood’s Comic Annual_, 1889.

――――

CONFESSION OF A CIGAR-SMOKER.

I owe to smoking, more or less,
Through life the whole of my success;
With my cigar I’m sage and wise――
Without, I’m dull as cloudy skies.
When smoking all my ideas soar,
When not, they sink upon the floor.
The greatest men have all been smokers,
And so were all the greatest jokers.
Then ye who’d bid adieu to care,
Come here and smoke it into air!

――――:o:――――

THE CIGARETTE.

I sing the song of the cigarette,
The nineteenth century dudelet’s pet;
With its dainty white overcoat,
Prithee, now, make a note,
How your affections entangled get.
The Machiavelian power I sing,
Of the stealthy, insidious, treacherous thing.

What odours unpleasant our nostrils fret!
That subtle aroma we ne’er forget.
But wherefore complain of it?
Spite of the pain of it,
We, too, indulge in our cigarette.
The skeletonizing power I sing,
Of the mind-paralyzing, perfidious thing.

Shades of the past, that linger yet!
Is there no land where laws beset
Those who lay sense aside,
Puffing slow suicide,
Into themselves from a cigarette?
Thither I’d fly, and for ever sing
The praise of the land that is free from the thing.

From the various gamins the slums beget
To the gilded youth with the coronet,
All of them play with it,
Seemingly gay with it,
Taking slow death through a cigarette.
The invasive, intrusive, odoriferous thing
Its power autocratic I sadly sing.

What sinner without and beyond the pale
Of civilization, began to inhale,
Sealing his own sad fate,
Telling us, oh, too late!
Gibbering lunacy ends the tale.
Husky my voice, I must cease to sing,
I’m puffing, myself, at the poisonous thing.

_The Judge._

SNUFF: AN INSPIRATION.

The pungent, nose-refreshing weed,
Which, whether pulverised it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or, whether touched with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,
Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the Nine.

WILLIAM COWPER.

――――

SGANARELLE, _tenant une tabatière_:――

“Quoi que puissent dire Aristote et toute la philosophie, il
n’est rien d’égal au tabac; c’est la passion des honnêtes
gens, et qui vit sans tabac n’est pas digne de vivre. Non
seulement il réjouit et purge les cerveaux humains, mais
encore il instruit les âmes à la vertu, et l’on apprend avec
lui à devenir honnête homme. Ne voyez-vous pas bien, dès
qu’on en prend, de quelle manière obligeante on en use avec
tout le monde, et comme on est ravi d’en donner à droite et
à gauche, par-tout où l’on se trouve? On n’attend pas même
que l’on en demande, et l’on court au-devant du souhait des
gens: tant il est vrai que le tabac inspire des sentiments
d’honneur et de vertu à tous ceux qui en prennent.”

MOLIERE. _Don Juan._ (1665.)

――――

SIX REASONS FOR TAKING SNUFF.

When strong perfumes and noisome scents,
The suffering nose invade
Snuff, best of Indian weeds, presents
Its salutary aid.

When vapours swim before the eyes,
And cloud the dizzy brain,
Snuff, to dispel the mist, applies
Its quick enlivening grain.

When pensively we sit or walk,
Each social friend away,
Snuff best supplies the want of talk,
And cheers the lonely day.

The hand, like alabaster fair,
The diamond’s sparkling pride,
Can ne’er so gracefully appear,
If snuff should be denied.

E’en Commerce, name of sweetest sound
To every British ear,
Must suffering droop, should snuff be found
Unworthy of our care.

For ev’ry pinch of snuff we take
Helps trade in some degree;
As smallest drops of water make
The vast unbounded sea.

Read’s _Weekly Journal_. February 21, 1761.

――――

J’AI DU BON TABAC.

J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière,
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.
J’en ai du fin et du rapé,
Ce n’est pour ton fichu nez.
J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière,
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

Ce refrain connu que chantait mon père,
A ce seul couplet il était borné.
Moi, je me suis déterminé
A le grossir comme mon nez.
J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière,
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

Un noble heritier de gentilhommière,
Recueille tout seul un fief blasonné,
Il dit à son frère puîné
Sois abbé, je suis ton aîné.
J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière,
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

Un vieil usurier, expert en affaire,
Auquel par besoin on est amené,
A l’emprunteur infortuné,
Dit, après l’avoir ruiné:
J’ai du bon tabac, dans ma tabatière,
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

Juges, avocats, entr’ouvrant leurs serres,
Au pauvre plaideur par eux rançonné,
Après avoir pateliné,
Disent, le procès terminé:
J’ai du bon tabac, dans ma tabatière,
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

D’un gros financier, la coquette flaire
Le beau bijou d’or de diamants orné.
Ce grigou, d’un air renfrogné,
Lui dit: Malgré ton joli nez――
J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière,
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

Tel qui veut nier l’esprit de Voltaire,
Est pour le sentir trop enchifrené.
Cet esprit est trop raffiné,
Et lui passe devant le nez.
Voltaire a l’esprit dans sa tabatière,
Et du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

Voilà huit couplets, cela ne fait guère,
Pour un tel sujet bien assaisonné;
Mais j’ai peur qu’un priseur mal né,
Me chante, en me riant au nez:
J’ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière
J’ai du bon tabac, tu n’en auras pas.

GABRIEL CHARLES DE LATTEIGNANT (1697-1779.)

TO MY NOSE.

Knows he that never took a pinch,
Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows?
Knows he the titillating joys
Which my nose knows?
O nose! I am as proud of thee
As any mountain of its snows;
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride
A Roman knows?

ALFRED CROWQUILL.

_The Comic Offering._ 1834.

PADDY DUNBAR.

At the request of numerous subscribers the following very humorous parody of Sir Walter Scott’s “Young Lochinvar” is here given, although somewhat out of its proper order. The parody, which is a favourite piece with reciters, has been kindly sent by Mr. C. H. Stephenson, of Southport.

PADDY DUNBAR.

Och, Paddy Dunbar is come out of the West,
In all broad St. Giles his brogue was the best,
And, save his shillelah, he weapon had none,
He walked by himself, when he walked all alone;
So daring in love, and so plucky in war,
Och, a broth of a boy now, was Paddy Dunbar.

He carried up bricks, and he carried up stone,
And he carried up mortar, when bricks there was none;
But ere he had rattled at Mulrooney’s gate,
The bride had consinted, poor Paddy came late,
And a fresh-water sailor, as niver smelt tar,
Was to wed the swate Norah of Paddy Dunbar.

So bowldly he marched into Mulrooney’s stall,
’Mongst mothers, and brothers, and cousins, and all;
Then spake ould Mulrooney, his fist in his hand
While the spalpeen of a bridegroom quite spacheless did stand,
“Och, come ye in pace here; or come ye in war,
Or to jig at our wedding, ye blaygard Dunbar?”

“When I first coorted Norah, ye thought me too bould,
Love warms us like toddy, but sooner grows cold;
And now I am come, without malice or spleen,
To jig at your wedding, and smoke my dhudeen;
There are girls in St. Giles more pretty by far,
Would gladly be married to Paddy Dunbar.”

The bride filled a noggin, young Pat took it up,
He tipped off the whisky, then threw down the cup;
She looked down to sneeze, then looked up so sly,
Wid a pipe in her mouth, and a patch on her eye;
He took her red hand, ere her mother could bar,
“Here goes for a jig now,” says Paddy Dunbar.

So big was his form, and so red was her face,
That nivir a stall such a couple did grace;
While the mother did fret, and the father did fume,
And the bridegroom lay drunk at the end of the room:
And the bride-gossips whispered, “’twere better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with Paddy Dunbar.”

One wink o’ the eye, and one word in the ear,
When they reached the street door, and found the coast clear;
So light to his shoulder swate Norah he flung,
So swift o’er the gutter before him he sprung,
“We are gone, she is mine, over post, rail, and bar,
They’ll have long legs that catch us,” said Paddy Dunbar.

There was rousing and growling in Mulrooney’s clan,
The Murphys and Donovans up and they ran;
There was racing and chasing, a deuce of a spree,
But the illigant Norah no more did they see:
So daring in love, and so plucky in war,
Och, a broth of a boy now was Paddy Dunbar.

――――

THE STAR.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing Sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveller in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark:
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye,
Till the Sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveller in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

_Ascribed to Miss Taylor._

――――

MICA, MICA.

Mica, mica, parva Stella;
Miror, quænam sis tam bella!
Splendens eminus in illo,
Alba velut gemma, coelo.
Quando fervens Sol discessit,
Nec calore prata pascit,
Mox ostendis lumen purum,
Micans, micans, per obscurum.
Tibi, noctu qui vagatur,
Ob scintillulam gratatur;
Ni micares tu, non sciret
Quas per vias errans iret.
Meum sæpe thalamum luce
Specularis curiosa;
Neque carpseris soporem,
Donec venit Sol per auram.

HENRY DRURY.

From _Arundines Cami_. 1851.

――――

TO A LONDON CHURCH BELL.

Tinkle, tinkle, horrid bell!
How I hate your dismal knell!
From your church’s tower so high
Plaguing all the dwellers nigh.

Ere the shades of night are gone,
Ere the sun earth shines upon,
You begin with morning light
Tinkle, tinkle, till the night.

And the toiling City clerk
Hears you in his office dark;
Less of headache he might know
If you did not tinkle so.

With your ceaseless clang you keep
Many a sufferer from sleep,
For you never silent lie
While the sun is in the sky.

As your din from dawn to dark
Worries both sick man and clerk,
Proving oftentimes their knell,
Cease to tinkle, horrid bell!

(Prize parody.) M. BEACH.

_One and All._ November 6, 1880.

――――

TO THE TEMPLE BAR MEMORIAL.

Monument to Temple Bar,
How I wonder why you are
Stuck in Fleet by magnates high,
Like a huge November guy!

Though the ugly Bar is gone,
You the site must rest upon,
Just to show how little light
Flickers in this Council bright.(?)

Then the travellers in the dark,
Curse you as their shins you bark,
For they could tell which way to go
If you did not hinder so.

In the narrow street you keep,
At solemn pace my cab doth creep
’Neath thy “all-fired” griffin’s eye,
Leering there ’twixt earth and sky.

As of light no tiny spark,
Brightens all thy hist’ry dark,
Oh! I know not _why_ you are,
Monument to Temple Bar.

_One and All._ November 6, 1880.

There are five other parodies of the same original in the competition, but the two above are the most interesting.

――――

THE REVISED VERSION.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” the nursery rhyme so familiar to everybody, has been revised by a Committee of Eminent Scholars, with the following result:

Shine with irregular, intermitted light,[28] sparkle at intervals,
diminutive, luminous, heavenly body.[29]
How I conjecture, with surprise, not unmixed with uncertainty,[30]
what you are,
Located, apparently, at such a remote distance[31] from and at a
height so vastly superior to this earth, the planet we inhabit.
Similar in general appearance and refractory powers to the precious
primitive octahedron crystal of pure carbon,[32] set in the aërial
region surrounding the earth.

_Merry Folks Library._

――――

Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific,
Fain would I fathom thy nature specific.
Loftily poised in æther capacious,
Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.

When Torrid Phœbus refuses his presence,
And ceases to lamp us with fierce incandescence,
Then you illumine the regions supernal
Scintillate, scintillate, semper nocturnal.

Then the victim of hospiceless peregrination
Gratefully hails your minute coruscation;
He could not determine his journey’s direction
But for your bright scintillating protection.

――――

THE SPRINKLER.

Sprinkle, sprinkle, water cart,
How I wonder what thou art;
Never can I find you nigh
When the dust is deep and dry.

When the clouded sun is set,
And the streets with rain are wet,
Then you wing your little flight,
Sprinkle, sprinkle, left and right.

When the crossings, Sunday clean,
Full of well-dressed folks are seen,
Men, amid their shrieks and oaths
How you sprinkle all their clothes.

And when bright my boots are “shined,”
And my hands in kids confined,
Rattling down the thirsty street
How you soak my hands and feet.

Some day, when this deed is done,
I will draw my trusty gun,
Then we’ll wonder where thou art
Buckshot sprinkled water-cart.

――――

TO A FALLEN “STAR.”

Twinkle! twinkle! _Morning Star!_[33]
How I wonder where you are!
Not that you were ever high
In the journalistic sky.

But I wonder has John Bright
Ceased to feed you with his light?
Have you had your little day?
Have you shone your last weak ray?

If you have――why then I’m glad,
For the light you gave was bad!
If you’re snuffed out, _Morning Star_,
Why I’m very pleased you are!

_Punch and Judy_ (London.) October 23, 1869.

――――

TO THE NEW STAR IN ANDREW MEDIA.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Up among the nebular;
How I wonder all the same,
Where you were before you came?

You are shining, are you not,
When the blazing sun is sot?
Tell me truly, is it right,
To be on the blaze all night?

I do not know who you are,
Though your face seems famil-yar;
Nameless little globe of fire――
Twinkle, twinkle, little stire.

――――

THE TINKLING TRAM.

Tinkle, tinkle, Tramway Car!
Well I’m conscious where you are.
Down below my study high,
Like a demon ever nigh.

When the morning opens wet,
When in fog the sun hath set,
Then you sound to left, to right,
Tinkle, tinkle, day and night!

When to sleep my eyes incline,
Then your bells kicks up its shine;
Up the street and down the street,
’Mid the horse-hoofs’ maddening beat.

No――detested demon car.
I _don’t_ “wonder what you are”;
But _too_ well aware am I,
Tinkling horror, ever nigh!

_Punch’s Almanack_ for 1884.

――――

THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR.

_The Public asks_:――

Twinkle, twinkle, Prosecu_tar_,
How we wonder what you are,
Up above our heads so high,
Conundrum in the legal sky.

When a blazing wrong is done.
To prosecute you are the one;
Out should come your little light,
In the clouds of legal night.

Then the public, in the dark,
Would thank you for your welcome, spark;
Justice could not onward go,
If you did not twinkle so.

But behind a cloud you keep,
Only popping out to peep.
Legal star, you shut your eye,
We, and Hawkins, wonder why.

_The P. P. answers_:――

My blessings, friend, are over-estimated;
You ask me plainly, why I was created;
I’ll tell you straight, and stop your flippant raillery:
I was appointed――――

_The Public_:――Well?

_The P. P._:――To draw my salary.

_The Referee._ December 2, 1882.

――――

Twinkle, twinkle little star
I can tell you what you are;
And your atmosphere, I hope,
Analyse with spectroscope.
Tin, I fancy; lead, I fear,
Lurk within your atmosphere.
Gold, by Jingo, better far!
Twinkle, twinkle little star.

SALVE.

_Truth._ October 15, 1885.

Wrinkles, wrinkles, solar star,
I obtain of what you are,
When unto the noonday sky,
I the spectroscope apply;
For the spectrum renders clear
Gaps within your photosphere,
Also sodium in the bar,
Which your rays yield, solar star.

CHESSMAN.

_Truth._ September 30, 1886.

(This latter had previously appeared in _Harper’s Magazine_.)

――――:o:――――

VERB SAP.

(_To a Wandering Star._)

“I am willing to throw in my lot with that of my friend Huxley, and ‘to fight to the death’ against this wicked and cowardly surrender. A desperate gamester, miscalled a Statesman, has chosen to invoke ignorant foreign opinion against the instructed opinion of his own countrymen.”――_Professor Tyndall’s last Letter to the Times._

Tyndall, Tyndall, learned star,
How we wonder where you are!
Fizzing up like penny pop,
Coming down on Gladstone flop!

“Desperate gamester!” Tyndall mine,
Such invective is _not_ fine.
Have _you_ not a card to trump,
Rattling Randolph on the stump?

* * * * *

Difference exists no doubt;
Let us calmly fight it out;
But to call each other names
Is the vulgarest of games.

Honestly one view you hold;
If to differ one makes bold,
Is it fair, Sir, to infer,
That he’s rascal, traitor, cur?

Pooh! That’s Party’s puerile plan,
Wisdom, Sir, should play the man.
Drop these tart polemic pennings,
Leave that sort of stuff to Jennings.

_Punch._ July 23, 1887.

――――

LINES TO THE ELECTRIC LIGHT IN THE READING
ROOM OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

Twinkle, twinkle, little arc,
Sickly, green, uncertain spark!
Up above my head you swing,
Ugly, strange, expensive thing.

When across the foggy air
Streams the lightning’s blinding glare
Does the Reader in the dark
Bless your radiance, little arc?

When you fade with modest blush,
Scarce more bright than farthing rush,
Would he see which way to go,
If you always twinkled so?

Cold, unlovely, shivering star,
I’ve no notion what you are――
How your wondrous “system” works,
Who controls your jumps and jerks.

Yours a splendour like the day――
Bilious green and purple ray!
No: where’er they worship you
All the world is black or blue.

Though your light _at times_ surpass
Homely oil or vulgar gas,
Still――I close with this remark――
I detest you, little arc!

Slightly altered from _Judy_. June 6, 1888.

――――

BOULANGER.

Twinkle, twinkle, little Star,
How I wonder what you are!
Still more what you mean to be,
When you get back to Par_ee_!

Are you a Republican,
Wedded to the Rights of man?
Or an embryotic King?
Emperor? Despot? Anything?

When you’re President-elect,
What new move may we expect?
Will you show us what you are
By a bloody Coup d’Etat?

Here meanwhile in London town
You will certainly _go down_;
Social crowds will stare and cheer;
Of expulsion there’s no fear!

Twinkle, twinkle, Gallic Star!
We’ve no notion what you are;
Living low and flying high.
Like a comet in the sky.

_Puck._ May 1, 1889.

The political adventurer Boulanger, having done all he could to embarrass the French Government, and to create disturbances on the eve of the opening of the great Paris Exhibition, ignominiously fled to Belgium, when he found that his selfish and unpatriotic conduct was likely to bring upon him the punishment he deserved. Whilst in Brussels he issued a ridiculously theatrical manifesto, whereupon the Belgian Government hinted that his presence was undesirable in that country, and in April last he sought refuge in London. His reception was cool, and in a few days he was completely forgotten. Boulanger, who is fifty-two years of age, has none of the qualities necessary in a man who aspires to be a great political leader, and had he not been supported by the wealth and influence of the re-actionary parties in France, he would long since have sunk back into his native obscurity.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said a spider to a fly,
“’Tis the prettiest little parlour, sure, that ever you did spy;
You’ve only got to pop your head within side of the door,
You’ll see so many curious things you never saw before,
Will you walk in pretty fly?”

“My house is always open,” says the spider to the fly,
“I’m glad to have the company of all I see go by;”
“They go in, but don’t come out again――I’ve heard of you before;”
“Oh yes, they do, I always let them out at my back door.
Will you walk in, pretty fly?”

“Will you grant me one sweet kiss, then!” says the spider to the fly;
“To taste your charming lips, I’ve a cu-ri-os-i-ty!”
Said the fly, “If once our lips did meet, a wager I would lay,
Of ten to one, you would not after let them come away.”
“Will you walk in, pretty fly?”

“If you won’t kiss, will you shake hands?” says the spider to the fly,
“Before you leave me to myself, with sorrow sad to sigh.”
Says the fly――“there’s nothing handsome unto you belongs;
I declare you should not touch me even with a pair of tongs.”
“Will you walk in, pretty fly?”

“What handsome wings you’ve got,” says the spider to the fly,
“If I had got such a pair, I in the air would fly
’Tis useless all my wishing, and only idle talk,
You can fly up in the air, while I’m obliged to walk.
Will you walk in, pretty fly?”

“For the last time, now, I ask you, will you walk in, Mr. Fly?”
“No! if I do, may I be shot! I’m off! so now good by.”
Then up he springs, but both his wings were in the web caught fast!
The spider laughed, “ha, ha, my boy, I have you safe at last.”
“Will you walk _out_, pretty fly?”

“And pray how are you now?” says the spider to the fly!
“You fools will never wisdom get, unless you dearly buy!
’Tis vanity that ever makes repentance come too late,
And you who into cobwebs run, surely deserve your fate.
Listen to me, listen to me, foolish fly.”

MORAL.

Now, all young men take warning by this foolish little fly:
Pleasure is the spider, that to catch you fast will try;
For, although you may think that my advice is quite a bore,
You’re lost if you stand parleying outside of Pleasure’s door.
Remember, oh, remember, the foolish little fly.

MARY HOWITT.

――――

“WILL YOU MIGRATE TO NEW ZEALAND?”

I.

“Will you migrate to New Zealand?” its Colonists do cry,
“’Tis the richest, healthiest country, that ever you did spy;
The way to our Arcadia is o’er the pleasant sea,
And endless the enchanting scenes we’ll show when there you be!”
“Oh! no, no,” say the Englishmen, “to ask us in vain,
For who goes o’er your longsome seas, can ne’er come back again.”

II.

“We’re sure you must be weary, lads, with toiling all the day,
Luxuriate in our balmy clime,” the Colonists still say;
“The fertile earth here laughs around, the skies are warm and fine,
Oh! do but come, live here awhile, and share our oil and wine.”
“Ah! no, no,” say the Englishmen, “we’ve often heard before,
How many gammon’d simple folk, wreck on your earthquake-shore.”

III.

The cunning Colonists repeat――“Dear friends, what can we do
To prove the immense solicitude we’ve always felt for you?
We have within our ample bounds good store of all that’s nice,
You’re very welcome all to come, and each to take his slice.”
“Oh! no, no,” say the Englishmen, “kind sirs, that cannot be,
We’ve heard what’s in your country, and we have no care to see.”

IV.

“Fine fellows,” say the Colonists, “you’re industrious and you’re
steady,
How powerful are your toil-task’d limbs, your minds so strong and
ready!
We have full many a splendid spot in our new-promis’d land,
Such soil,――so water’d,――timber’d too, soliciting your hand.”
“We thank you, liberal Colonists, for what you’re pleased to proffer,
We’re busy now,――another day we’ll listen to your offer.”

V.

The Colonists are waiting still, they prowl about their beach,
For well they guess some English dupes will come within their reach;
So they conjure up some Siren song, and have it put in print,
And rub their hands, and slap their thighs, at folks believing in’t:
They fabricate long letters home――from settlers well-to-do,
All season’d high with luring lies, so couched to seem quite true;
“Here capital must multiply, wealth waits each working clan,
Here is――Eutopia itself, aye,――Paradise for man.”

VI.

Alas! alas! how very soon some too-confiding men,
Hearken to the seductive words said o’er and o’er again:
With home――they discontented grow, fancy――a fairer land,
Air-castles build in promis’d scenes, with wealth that courts the
hand;
Seas cross’d――the colony must now for ever hold them fast.
Fresh Colonists are old one’s game, who pluck them great and small,
Gloat o’er their brethren――victimized, sore struggling, one and all.

VIII.

And now, ye English, old and young, who may this story read,
To tales from coves――of distant shores, I pray you ne’er give heed;
Unto the crafty Colonist, close heart, and ear, and eye,
And heed this version of the tale of “The Spider and the Fly.”

From _Emigration Realised_, a poem, &c., by S. C. C. (_i.e._ Chase), London. Saunders & Otley, 1855.

――――

THE SONG OF THE BANK DIRECTOR.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly!
“Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
“You’ve only got to pop your head just inside of the door,
“You’ll see so many curious things you never saw before”
“Will you let me see your pocket?” said the spider to the fly!
“To handle your bright gold I’ve a great curiosity.”

Said the fly, “If once you’d hold of it, a wager I would lay
“Of ten to one you very soon would take it all away.”
“What handsome purse, what lots of cash!” quoth spider to the fly.
“If I had so much money, some nice Bank shares I would buy.
“Look here!” And here he ope’d a safe, and said, “Dear fly, just see
“These lovely shares, big divs., and unlim’d liability.”

“What lovely wings they’d make you! How much higher you could fly!
“For the last time, now, I ask you, pretty creature, will you buy?”
And the silly fly, intoxicated with his flattery,
Bought lots of shares with unlimited liability.
But when the time came for the dividends to be received,
The poor fly found that he had been most woefully deceived.

When he went into the parlour, quick the spider shut the door,
And tightly round him spun his web, and hurled him on the floor――
And laughed, “Ha! ha!” and said, “I’ll show you now, my pretty fly,
“What comes of buying shares with unlim’d liability.”
And first he plundered all his gold, and all he had beside,
And then he crushed him utterly, and sucked him till he died.

From _Dizzi-Ben-Dizzi_, 1878.

――――

THE IRISH SPIDER AND THE ENGLISH FLY.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly.
“We can talk without disturbance, and no Tories can espy.
It is just across the Channel, you can very soon get there.
And I’ve curious things to show you which I’m sure will make you
stare.”
“Excuse me,” said the Grand Old Fly, “your manner has a charm,
But are you really sure, dear sir, you do not mean me harm?”