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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

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



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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