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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

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

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

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

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

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



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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