A Ballade Of Pipes

I like to see in graceful row
 My modest pipes upon the wall,
For there they make a dainty show,
 And ever ready at my call.
I praise them with a smoker's drawl
 To friends, but when they go away
I put them back, and, free from thrall,
 I take the ever-ready clay.


Your meerschaum makes the fancy glow
 As up the bowl the colours crawl;
But still there is the inward throe
 For fear of blotch or sudden fall.
Your briar can stand an overhaul,
 Does yeoman service night or day;
I smoke them both, but after all
 I take the ever-ready clay.


It matters not what visions grow
 From hookahs, whether short or tall,
Chibouques in bearded lips, and slow,
 Soul-soothing whiffs for great and small.
Somehow upon the taste they pall,
 Whether from Stamboul or Cathay;
Smoke them who will in Turkish hall,
 I take the ever-ready clay.


Envoi

Friends, when the evening fire is low,
 When visions have their best display,
Put past your briar and meerschaum—so—
 And take the ever-ready clay.