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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

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

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

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



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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