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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

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

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



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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