That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a "modest quencher"; That home-returning, I may 'soothly say,' "Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day." ODE TO TOBACCO. THOU who, when fears attack, Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest: I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost Useless, except to roast Doctors have said it: How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbours; Jones-who, I'm glad to say, |