Chapter 1

THIS Indian weed, now withered quite, Though green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay; All flesh is hay: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The pipe so lily-like and weak, Does thus thy mortal state bespeak; Thou art e’en such,— Gone with a touch: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high, Then thou behold’st the vanity Of worldly stuff, Gone with a puff: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soul defiled with sin; For then the fire It does require: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And seest the ashes cast away, Then to thyself thou mayest say, That to the dust Return thou must. Thus think, and smoke tobacco.