Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Tobacco

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

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