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Smoking Poems

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

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

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

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



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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