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Smoking Poems

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...



KNICKERBOCKER.








Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
Boughton, had you bid me chant
Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant,
Had you bid me sing of Wouter,
He, the onion head, the doubter!
But to rhyme of this one--Mocker!
Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?
Nay, but where my hand must fail,
There the more shall yours avail;
You shall take your brush and paint
All that ring of figures quaint,--
All those Rip Van Winkle jokers,
All those solid-looking smokers,
Pulling at their pipes of amber,
In the dark-beamed Council Chamber.

Only art like yours can touch
Shapes so dignified--and Dutch;
Only art like yours can show
How the pine logs gleam and glow,
Till the firelight laughs and passes
'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,
Touching with responsive graces
All those grave Batavian faces,
Making bland and beatific
All that session soporific.

Then I come and write beneath:
Boughton, he deserves the wreath;
He can give us form and hue--
This the Muse can never do!

AUSTIN DOBSON.





Next: THE DISCOVERY OF TOBACCO.

Previous: TO MY CIGAR.



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