THE BALLAD OF THE PIPE.

Oh, give me but Virginia's weed,

An earthen bowl, a stem of reed,

What care I for the weather?

Though winter freeze and summer broil

We rest us from our days of toil

My Pipe and I together!



Like to a priest of sacred fane,

I nightly light the glow again

With reverence and pleasure;

For through this plain and modest bowl

I coax s eet mem'ry to my soul

And many trippings measure!



There's comfort in each puff of smoke,

Defiance to ill-fortune's stroke

And happiness forever!

There grows a volume full of thought

And humor, than the book you bought

Holds nothing half so clever!



The summer fragrance, all pent up

Among the leaves, is here sent up

In dreams of summer glory;

And these blue clouds that slowly rise

Were colored by the summer skies,

And tell a summer story.



And oh! the happiest, sweetest times

Come ringing all their silver chimes

Of merry songs and laughter;

And all that may be well and worth

For Mother Future to bring forth

I do imagine after.



What care I if my poor means

Clad not my walls with splendid scenes

And pictures by the masters;

Here in the curling smoke-wreath glow

Bold hills and lovely vales below,

And brooks with nodding asters.



All that on earth is fair and fine,

This fragrant magic makes it mine,

And gives me sole dominion;

And if you call me fanciful,

I only take a stronger pull,

And laugh at your opinion.



Let others fret and fume with care,

'Tis easy finding everywhere,

But happiness is rarer;

And if I find it sweet and ripe,

In this tobacco and my pipe,

I'll count it all the fairer.



Then give me but Virginia's weed,

An earthen bowl, a stem of reed,

What care I for the weather?

Though winter freeze, or summer broil

We rest us from the days of toil,

My Pipe and I together.



HERMANN RAVE.