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Smoking Poems

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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

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

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

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

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

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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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