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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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



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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