In blackest gloom he cursed his lot;
His breath was one long weary sigh;
His brows were gathered in a knot
That only baccy could untie.
His oldest pipe was scraped out clean;
The deuce a puff was left him there;
A hollow sucking sound of air
Was all he got his lips between.
He only said, -My life is dreary.
The Baccy's done,� he said.
He said, -I am aweary, aweary;
By Jove, I'm nearly dead.�

The chimney-piece he searched in vain,
Into each pocket plunged his fist;
His cheek was blanched with weary pain,
His mouth awry for want of twist.
He idled with his baccy-knife;
He had no care for daily bread:-
A single stick of Negro-head
Would be to him the staff of life.
He only said, -My life is dreary.
The Baccy's done,� he said.
He said, -I am aweary, aweary
I'd most as soon be dead.�

Books had no power to mend his grief;
The magazines could tempt no more;
-Cut Gold-Leaf� was the only leaf
That he had cared to ponder o'er.
From chair to sofa sad he swings,
And then from sofa back to chair;
But in the depth of his despair
Can catch no -bird's-eye� view of things.
And still he said, -My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys,� he said.
He said, -I am aweary, aweary;
I'd just as soon be dead.�

His meals go by he knows not how;
No taste in flesh, or fowl, or fish;
There's not a dish could tempt him now,
Except a cake of Caven-dish.
His life is but a weary drag;
He cannot choose but curse and swear,

And thrust his fingers through his hair,
All shaggy in the want of shag.
And still he said, -My life is dreary,
No Baccy, boys,� he said.
He said, -I am aweary, aweary;
I'd rather far be dead.�

To him one end of old cheroot
Were sweetest root that ever grew.
No honey were due substitute
For -Our Superior Honey-Dew.�
One little fig of Latakia
Would buy all fruits of Paradise;
-Prince Alfred's Mixture� fetch a price
Above both Prince and Galatea.
Sudden he said, -No more be dreary!
The dray has come!� he said.
He said, -I'll smoke till I am weary-
And then, I'll go to bed.�