My Old Cob Pipe
You may talk about your cigarettes and fifty cent cigars,
Your water pipes and briars, and your meerschaums and the rest,
With your extra blend tobacco and your silver mounted jars,
But just and old-time corn cob pipe is what I love the best,
With some double charged tobacco that is strong and old and ripe,
And I'll get a whiff of heaven from my old cob pipe.
When the winter winds are shrieking and the snow drift blocks the door,
I take my old companion, and we settle by the fire,
And I tell my pipe my troubles, till they trouble me no more,
For he speaks a silent language and his sayings never tire,
He's a comforter and helper of a rare and valued type,
And the world has seemed the sweeter for my old cob pipe.
Oh he loves the books I care for, and I sometimes think he knows
How my Kipling stirs the spirit, how my Dobson warms the heart,
And the faithful spark within him like a distant camp fire glows,
When the masters swinging rhythm sings of field and town and mart.
Yes my pipe and I are comrades of a most congenial stripe
So I love and loaf and labor with my old cob pipe.
But most and best I love him when amidst his smoke I see
The vision of the maiden who is soon to be my wife,
Yet a little pang of sadness even then comes over me
Despite the gladsome promise of happiness for life
And furtively from off my cheek a trickling tear I wipe,
For I've promised her to quit you now--my old cob pipe.