Young England, ’twixt its idle lips,
A tiny twirl of ’baccy grips,
And puffs a lazy cloud of blue,
And rests between a draw or two.
Our youth, alas! have grown of late
So languid and effeminate,
They’ve dropped cigars and heavy wet
For lemon-squash and cigarette.
The vulgar pipe is rarely seen
Their dainty lisping lips between;
The dude would scorn a big cigar,
His tout ensemble a weed would mar;
And so he rolls the paper toys
We used to smoke as little boys,
And all the dressed-up, mashing set
Affect the foreign cigarette.
But now they tremble and go pale—
The doctors tell a dreadful tale.
A wretched fellow writes to say
They’d better throw such weeds away.
Their faultless shirt-fronts quake with fear,
And crease and tumble when they hear
They in their breasts a viper pet—
There’s poison in the cigarette.
Go! let the foreign fellow puff
His tissue-paper Turkish stuff,
But let Young England scorn its yoke,
And once more like a Briton smoke
Between his lips a good cigar,
Whose bright red glow one sees afar:
He’ll feel a man, and soon forget
The poisoned foreign cigarette.