THE BETROTHED. 133 



Open the old cigar-boxlet me consider a. 



space ; 

 In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on 



Maggie's face. 



Maggie is pretty to look at, Maggie's a loving 



lass, 

 But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the 



truest of loves must pass. 



There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a 



Henry Clay, 

 But the best cigar in an hour is finished and 



thrown away. 



Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe 



and brown, 

 But I could not throw away Maggie, for fear o' 



the talk of the town ! 



Maggie my wife at fifty, gray and dour and 



old, 

 With never another Maggie to purchase for 



love or gold ! 



And the light of Days that have been, the dark 



of the Days that are, 

 And Love's touch stinking and stale, like the 



butt of a dead cigar 



The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to 



keep in your pocket, 

 With never a new one to light, tho' it's charred 



and black to the socket. 



