  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. |
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