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Smoking Poems

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

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

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

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

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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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