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Smoking Poems

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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

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

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...



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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