My Corn-Cob Pipe

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.