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.

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