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Smoking Poems

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

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

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

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

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...



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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