OPEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, | |
| For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. | |
| |
| We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o’er a good cheroot, | |
| And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. | |
| |
| Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space; | 5 |
| In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie’s face. | |
| |
| Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie’s a loving lass, | |
| But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. | |
| |
| There’s peace in a Laranaga, there’s calm in a Henry Clay; | |
| But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away— | 10 |
| |
| Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown— | |
| But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town! | |
| |
| Maggie, my wife at fifty—grey and dour and old— | |
| With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! | |
| |
| And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, | 15 |
| And Love’s torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar— | |
| |
| The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket— | |
| With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and black to the socket! | |
| |
| Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a while. | |
| Here is a mild Manilla—there is a wifely smile. | 20 |
| |
| Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring, | |
| Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied in a string? | |
| |
| Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried, | |
| And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? | |
| |
| Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, | 25 |
| Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close, | |
| |
| This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, | |
| With only a Suttee’s passion—to do their duty and burn. | |
| |
| This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, | |
| Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. | 30 |
| |
| The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, | |
| When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again. | |
| |
| I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, | |
| So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. | |
| |
| I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, | 35 |
| And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. | |
| |
| For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between | |
| The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o’ Teen. | |
| |
| And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, | |
| But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year; | 40 |
| |
| And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light | |
| Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. | |
| |
| And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, | |
| But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love. | |
| |
| Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? | 45 |
| Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? | |
| |
| Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew— | |
| Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? | |
| |
| A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; | |
| And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke. | 50 |
| |
| Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows. | |
| If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie for Spouse! | |
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