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Smoking Poems

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

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

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

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

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

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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



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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