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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

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

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

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...



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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