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“Hurrah! hurrah!" the conquering Reapers cry.
By Brennus preached and Brennus' conquering sword. [Walking from BIBIENA over the Consuma to PONTASSIEVE near FLORENCE,
July 4, 1865.]
FOR A PARTY OF TOURISTS DISAPPOINTED
OF BEDS IN THE INN OF
BELVEDERE, IN THE PASS BETWEEN LA VALTELLINA AND VAL CAMONICA,
AND DRINKING TILL A LATE HOUR IN THE ARBOUR IN FRONT OF THE INN.
THEY 'll not let us in, they vow and swear;
Ancor un boccale, camerier
For, every apple
it has a core;
it has a sore;
So push the bottle round, boys,
Then where most flowers abound, boys,
POET'S verse, I 've heard it said,
Poet's verse is polished.
HAPPY the man who sees the world
As it neither was nor is
High honored name is his.
But who the world sees as it is
And was and still shall be
Vile pessimist is he.
“Huic monstro Volcanus erat pater; illius atros
I AM the pink of courtesy
As I smoke my cigar,
And near, am smelt, and far.
Yet come not near, sweet ladies dear,
you 'd not burn your clothes; See how the sparks fly from the quid
Sticks out below my nose.
I vow and swear I take all care
To save your crinolines,
Were ye all sceptered queens.
The smell is not of violets,
I never will deny, And delicate olfactories
Will do well to fight shy,
And keep full six yards off from me
Here in wide open street,
In steamcoach when we meet.
There's not a morning comes, but I
Take pains to brush away From coat, necktie and gloves, the stale
Odour of yesterday;
In spite of all my pains, I own,
Some hangs about me still, But, well I know, so good your hearts,
Ye will not take it ill.
You 're bound in love, in duty bound,
So much from us to bear, The smell of a cigar will not
Weigh in the scale one hair.
But that we should the same from you
Take patiently in turn,
The more our clothes ye burn,
The more of yesterday's cigar
Your silks are redolent,
Are in the luxus spent,
The more your lips are red and swelled,
The less your breath is sweet That is a creed I never held,
Since first I strode the street.
A schoolboy rule is tit for tat,
Not fit for ladies' use,
What good sauce is for goose.
For though your woman's stomach 's made
Of the same stuff as ours,
At the same stated hours,
Yet kindly Nature has on you,
So much the weaker sex, Bestowed immunity from qualms
Which mightiest heroes vex;
And you can keep your spirits up,
And healthy appetite sound, Without one whiff of a cigar
The whole, long twelvemonth round.
Favored of heaven, ye know not what
He bears, the wretched man, Who, with bare five cigars a day,
Must put up as he can;
Who has not his Havana fresh,
To keep him in right tune, Before and after every meal,
Morning, and night, and noon;
One to enable him his eyes
To open to the light,
And so on until night;