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Smoking Poems

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

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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



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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