"You must choose between me and your cigar."
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.