The Spike: or, Victoria College Review, Annual Extravaganva July 1923
Just a light to baccy seasoned mellow rich
And away all sorrow, trouble, grief, I pitch.
That's why I am yearning
Just to be a burning A pipe of that old Indian weed.
Won't you puff
Of this fine old Indian stuff
To make you as happy as can be
When your pipe is a-going
And English ale's a-flowing.
Then who would wish for tea
When the smoke curls above you in dear little rings
When the juice in the pipe bowl a little song sings.
Then no more will I roam
But I'll stay right here at home
With foaming tankard, pipe and thee.