I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire,

I ne'er knew the Benedict's yoke;

I worship a fairy-like, fanciful form,

That goes up the chimney in smoke.

I sit in my dressing-gowned slipperful ease,

Without wife or bairns to provoke,

And puff at my pipe, while my hopes and my fears

All go up the chimney in smoke.

I sit with my pipe, and my heart's lonesome care

I try, but all vainly, to choke.

Ah, me! but I find that the flame that Love lights

Won't go up the chimney in smoke.

_Cigar and Tobacco World_, London.

'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES. A BACHELOR'S VIEWS. facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail