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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Squatter's Baccy Famine</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">In blackest gloom he cursed his lot;<br>His breath was one long weary sigh;<br>His brows were gathered in a knot<br>That only baccy could untie.<br>His oldest pipe was scraped out clean;<br>The deuce a puff was left him there;<br>A hollow sucking sound of air<br>Was all he got his lips between.<br>He only said, “My life is dreary.<br>The Baccy's done,” he said.<br>He said, “I am aweary, aweary;<br>By Jove, I'm nearly dead.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The chimney-piece he searched in vain,<br>Into each pocket plunged his fist;<br>His cheek was blanched with weary pain,<br>His mouth awry for want of twist.<br>He idled with his baccy-knife;<br>He had no care for daily bread:—<br>A single stick of Negro-head<br>Would be to him the staff of life.<br>He only said, “My life is dreary.<br>The Baccy's done,” he said.<br>He said, “I am aweary, aweary<br>I'd most as soon be dead.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Books had no power to mend his grief;<br>The magazines could tempt no more;<br>“Cut Gold-Leaf” was the only leaf<br>That he had cared to ponder o'er.<br>From chair to sofa sad he swings,<br>And then from sofa back to chair;<br>But in the depth of his despair<br>Can catch no “bird's-eye” view of things.<br>And still he said, “My life is dreary.<br>No Baccy, boys,” he said.<br>He said, “I am aweary, aweary;<br>I'd just as soon be dead.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His meals go by he knows not how;<br>No taste in flesh, or fowl, or fish;<br>There's not a dish could tempt him now,<br>Except a cake of Caven-dish.<br>His life is but a weary drag;<br>He cannot choose but curse and swear,<br> <br>And thrust his fingers through his hair,<br>All shaggy in the want of shag.<br>And still he said, “My life is dreary,<br>No Baccy, boys,” he said.<br>He said, “I am aweary, aweary;<br>I'd rather far be dead.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To him one end of old cheroot<br>Were sweetest root that ever grew.<br>No honey were due substitute<br>For “Our Superior Honey-Dew.”<br>One little fig of Latakia<br>Would buy all fruits of Paradise;<br>“Prince Alfred's Mixture” fetch a price<br>Above both Prince and Galatea.<br>Sudden he said, “No more be dreary!<br>The dray has come!” he said.<br>He said, “I'll smoke till I am weary—<br>And then, I'll go to bed.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Brunton+Stephens">James Brunton Stephens</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=415749" data-title="The Squatter's Baccy Famine de James Brunton Stephens" data-description="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 a..."></div>
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