I hear you fervently extol The virtues of your ancient clay, As black as any piece of coal, To me it smells of rank decay And bones of people passed away,— A smell I never could admire. With all respect to you I say, Give me a finely seasoned briar. Poor Jones, whose judgment as a whole Is faultless, has been led astray To nurse a costly meerschaum bowl. Well, let him nurse it as he may, I hardly think he'll find it pay. Before the colour gets much higher, He'll drop it on the grate some day. Give me a finely seasoned briar. The heathen Turk of Istamboul, In Oriental turban gay, Delights his unregenerate soul With hookahs, bubbling in a way To fill a Christian with dismay, And wake the old Crusading fire. May no such pipe be mine I pray! Give me a finely seasoned briar. ENVOY Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they That I should view them with desire? I'll sing, till all my hair is grey, Give me a finely seasoned briar. |