There's a lot of solid comfort

In an old clay pipe, I find,

If you're kind of out of humor

Or in trouble in your mind.

When you're feeling awful lonesome

And don't know just what to do,

There's a heap of satisfaction

If you smoke a pipe or two.

The ten thousand pleasant memories

That are buried in your soul

Are playing hide
nd seek with you

Around that smoking bowl.

These are mighty restful moments:

You're at peace with all the world,

And the panorama changes

As the thin blue smoke is curled.

Now you cross the bridge of sorrows,

Now you enter pleasant lands,

And before an open doorway,

You will linger to shake hands

With a lithe and girlish figure

That is coming through the door;

Ah! you recognize the features:

You have seen that face before.

You are at the dear old homestead

Where you spent those happy years;

You are romping with the children;

You are smiling through your tears;

You have fought and whipped the bully

You are eight and he is ten.

Oh! how rapidly we travel,--

You are now a boy again.

You approach the open doorway,

And before the old armchair

You will stop and kiss the grandma,

You will smooth the thin white hair;

You will read the open Bible,

For the lamp is lit, you see.

It is now your hour for bed-time

And you kneel at mother's knee.

Still you linger at the hearthstone;

You are loath to leave the place.

When an apple cut's in progress:

You must wait and dance with Grace.

What's the matter with the music?

Only this: The pipe is broke,

And a thousand pleasant fancies

Vanish promptly with the smoke.