In vain you fervently extol, <br />In vain you puff, your cutty clay. <br />A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal, <br />'Tis redolent of rank decay <br />And bones of monks long passed away— <br />A fragrance I do not admire; <br />And so I hold my nose and say, <br />Give me a finely seasoned briar. <br /> <br />Macleod, whose judgment on the whole <br />Is faultless, has been led astray <br />To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl, <br />For which he sweetly had to pay. <br />Ah, let him nurse it as he may, <br />Before the colour mounts much higher, <br />The grate shall be its fate one day. <br />Give me a finely seasoned briar. <br /> <br />The heathen Turk of Istamboul, <br />In oriental turban gay, <br />Delights his unbelieving soul <br />With hookahs, bubbling in a way <br />To fill a Christian with dismay <br />And wake the old Crusading fire. <br />May no such pipe be mine, I pray; <br />Give me a finely seasoned briar. <br /> <br />Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they <br />That I should view them with desire? <br />Both now, and when my hair is grey, <br />Give me a finely seasoned briar.<br /><br />Robert Fuller Murray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-best-pipe/
