The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VII

My cigarette! I see her yet,
The white smoke from her red lips curling,
Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies,
Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling!
Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul
Ebbs out in many a snowy billow,
I, too, would burn if I might earn
Upon her lips so soft a pillow!

Ah, cigarette! The gay coquette
Has long forgot the flames she lighted,
And you and I unthinking by
Alike are thrown, alike are slighted.
The darkness gathers fast without,
A raindrop on my window plashes;
My cigarette and heart are out,
And naught is left me but the ashes.

IT IS TIME TO BEGIN TO CONCLUDE

BY A.H. LAIDLAW

Ye Parsons, desirous all sinners to save,
And to make each a prig or a prude,
If two thousand long years have not made us behave,
It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Husbands, who wish your sweet mates to grow mum,
And whose tongues you have never subdued,
If ten years of your reign have not made them grow dumb,
It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Matrons of men whose brown meerschaum still mars
The sweet kiss with tobacco bedewed,
After pleading nine years, if they still puff cigars,
It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Lawyers, who aim to reform all the land,
And your statutes forever intrude,
If five thousand lost years have not worked as you planned,
It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Lovers, who sigh for the heart of a maid,
And forty-four years have pursued,
If two scores of young years have not taught you your trade,
It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Doctors, who claim to cure every ill,
And so much of mock learning exude,
If the Comma Bacillus still laughs at your pill,
It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Maidens of Fifty, who lonely abide,
Yet who heartily scout solitude,
If Jack with his whiskers is not at your side,
It is time to begin to conclude.

NOTHIN' DONE[2 - Lippincott's Magazine.]

BY SAM S. STINSON

Winter is too cold fer work;
Freezin' weather makes me shirk.

Spring comes on an' finds me wishin'
I could end my days a-fishin'.

Then in summer, when it's hot,
I say work kin go to pot.

Autumn days, so calm an' hazy,
Sorter make me kinder lazy.

That's the way the seasons run.
Seems I can't git nothin' done.

MARGINS

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

My dreams so fair that used to be,
The promises of youth's bright clime,
So changed, alas; come back to me
Sweet memories of that hopeful time
Before I learned, with doubt oppressed,
There are no birds in next year's nest.

The seed I sowed in fragrant spring
The summer's sun to vivify
With his warm kisses, ripening
To golden harvest by and by,
Got caught by drought, like all the rest—
There are no birds in next year's nest.

The stock I bought at eighty-nine,
Broke down next day to twenty-eight;
Some squatters jumped my silver mine,
My own convention smashed my slate;
No more in "futures" I'll invest—