POETRY OF SMOKE. 49 



You are Hvin' in th' city that we ust to dream 



about ; 



I am still a-dwellin' here upon the place, 

 But my form is bent an' feeble, which was once 



so straight and stout, 

 An' there's most a thousand wrinkles on my 



face. 

 You have made a mint of money ; I perhaps 



have been your match, 

 But we both enjoyed life better in that ol' 



tobacker patch. 



s. Q. LAPIUS. 



MOTTO FOR A TOBACCO JAR. 



COME ! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, 

 But woo the goddess through a yard of clay ; 

 And soon vou'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! 



A STUB OF CIGAR. 



You ask what it means, and a look of scorn 

 Mars your fair face, dear Lady Disdain ; 



But to me it recalls a bright summer morn 

 When cherries were red down a long country 

 lane! 



