And vanish 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.

SMOKE IS THE FOOD OF LOVERS.

When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose
Was just the very one you might suppose.
Love keep a shop?--his trade, oh! quickly name!
A dealer in tobacco--fie, for shame!
No less than true, and set aside all joke,
From oldest time he ever dealt in smoke;
Than smoke, no other thing he sold, or made;
Smoke all the substance of his stock in trade;
His capital all smoke, smoke all his store,
'Twas nothing else; but lovers ask no more--
And thousands enter daily at his door!
Hence it was ever, and it e'er will be
The trade most suited to his faculty:
Fed by the vapors of their heart's desire,
No other food his votaries require;
For that they seek--the favor of the fair--
Is unsubstantial as the smoke and air.

JACOB CATS: _Moral Emblems_.

CLOUDS.

Mortals say their heart is light
When the clouds around disperse;
Clouds to gather, thick as night,
Is the smoker's universe.

_From the German of Bauernfeld_.

IN FAVOR OF TOBACCO.

Much victuals serves for gluttony
To fatten men like swine;
But he's a frugal man indeed
That with a leaf can dine,
And needs no napkin for his hands,
His fingers' ends to wipe,
But keeps his kitchen in a box,
And roast meat in a pipe.

SAMUEL ROWLANDS: _Knave of Clubs_ (1611).

MY CIGARETTE.

_WORDS