Come, drink a cup before we start; We 've far to ride to-night. And Death may take the race we make, And check our gallant flight: But even he must play his part, And tho' the look he wears be grim, We 'll drink a toast to him!
For Death,--a swift old chap is he, And swift the steed He rides. He needs no chart o'er main or mart, For no direction bides. So, come, a final, cup with me, And let the soldiers' chorus swell,-- To hell with care, to hell!
They please me not--these solemn songs That hint of sermons covered up. 'Tis true the world should heed its wrongs, But in a poem let me sup, Not simples brewed to cure or ease Humanity's confessed disease, But the spirit-wine of a singing line, Or a dew-drop in a honey cup!
He loved her, and through many years, Had paid his fair devoted court, Until she wearied, and with sneers Turned all his ardent love to sport.
That night within his chamber lone, He long sat writing by his bed A note in which his heart made moan For love; the morning found him dead.
Like him, a man of later day Was jilted by the maid he sought, And from her presence turned away, Consumed by burning, bitter thought.
He sought his room to write--a curse Like him before and die, I ween. Ah no, he put his woes in verse, And sold them to a magazine.
When first of wise old Johnson taught, My youthful mind its homage brought, And made the pond'rous crusty sage The object of a noble rage.
Nor did I think (How dense we are!) That any day, however far, Would find me holding, unrepelled, The place that Doctor Johnson held!
But change has come and time has moved, And now, applauded, unreproved, I hold, with pardonable pride, The place that Johnson occupied.
Conceit! Presumption! What is this? You surely read my words amiss; Like Johnson I,--a man of mind! How could you ever be so blind?
No. At the ancient "Cheshire Cheese," Blown hither by some vagrant breeze, To dignify my shallow wit, In Doctor Johnson's seat I sit!
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.