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Smoking Poems

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...



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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