Contented I sit with my pint and my pipe, Puffing sorrow and care far away, And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe, Like smoking and moist'ning our clay; * * * * * For tho' at my simile many may joke, Man is but a pipe and his life but smoke.
I asked of my dear friend Orator Prig: "What's the first part of oratory?" He said, "A great, wig." "And what is the second?" Then, dancing a jig And bowing profoundly, he said, "A great wig." "And what is the third?" Then he snored like a pig, And Puffing his cheeks out, he replied, "A great wig."
Now musing o'er the changing scene Farmers behind the tavern screen Collect; with elbows idly press'd On hob, reclines the corner's guest, Reading the news to mark again The bankrupt lists or price of grain. Puffing the while his red-tipt pipe He dreams o'er troubles nearly ripe, Yet, winter's leisure to regale, Hopes better times, and sips his ale.john clare