Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry

Part I

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.

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.

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