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Smoking Poems

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

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

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

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

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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



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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