When that last pipe is smoked at last

And pouch and pipe put by,

And Smoked and Smoker both alike

In dust and ashes lie,

What of the Smoker? Whither passed?

Ah, will he smoke no more?

And will there be no golden cloud

Upon the golden shore?

Ah! who shall say we cry in vain

To Fate upon his hill,

For, howsoe'er we ask and ask,

He goes on smoking still.

But, surely, 'twere a bitter thing

If other men pursue

Their various earthly joys again

Beyond that distant blue,

If the poor Smoker might not ply

His peaceful passion too.

If Indian braves may still up there

On merry scalpings go,

And buried Britons rise again

With arrow and with bow,

May not the Smoker hope to take

His "cutty" from below?

So let us trust; and when at length

You lay me 'neath the yew,

Forget not, O my friends, I pray,

Pipes and tobacco too!