Addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Freeman. THE wave is breaking on the shore, The echo fading from the chime Again the shadow moveth o'er The dial-plate of time! O seer-seen Angel! waiting now With weary feet on sea and shore,... Read more of The New Year at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

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

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

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



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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