Yer Old Cob Pipe.

I.

When the chilling winds of Winter come a-knocking at the door,
And the fleecy flakes are flying and the earth is covered o'er,
And you've supped on sweet potatoes and a 'possum frosted ripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
                                    Old
                                            Cob
                                                    Pipe!


II.

When the fire is blazing brightly and the room is snug and warm,
And you've left your cares and troubles on the outside with the storm,
And your natural leaf is colored with a golden yellow stripe,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
                                    Old
                                            Cob
                                                    Pipe!


III.

When the old split-bottom rocker is far better than a throne,
And the visions of the fancy are the fairest earth has known,
And you watch the mystic shapes that the dancing shadows write,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
                                    Old
                                            Cob
                                                    Pipe!


IV.

When your dressing gown and slippers might be envied by a king,
And the voices of the children sound as sweet as birds' that sing,
And the feelings that possess you are all of heavenly type,
Then glory hallelujah! Git yer
                                    Old
                                            Cob
                                                    Pipe!


V.

When the ringlets aromatic have circled round your head,
And a drowsiness o'ertakes you, and you want to go to bed,
And the bowlful that you're smoking has burned to ashes white,
Then glory hallelujah! Quit yer
                                    Old
                                            Cob
                                                    Pipe!