Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars
The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made cigars;
But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine,
And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe of mine.
It ‘s as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in bloom;
It ‘s as dainty as the essence of the daintiest perfume;
It ‘s as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is hanging ripe,
With the sun’s warm kiss upon them–is this corn-cob pipe.
Thro’ the smoke about it clinging, I delight its form to trace,
Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face;
And my room is dim with vapour as a church when censers sway,
As I clasp it to my bosom–in a figurative way.
It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in distress,
And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in success;
So I hail it as a symbol, friendship’s true and worthy type,
And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob pipe.
