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Smoking Poems

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

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

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

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

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



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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