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Smoking Poems

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

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

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

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

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

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

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

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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 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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