We'll crown the cannon with a cloud, We'll celebrate its praise; Recalling its old parting smoke, For good old by-gone days!

We'll smoke to these we leave behind In devious college ways; We'll smoke to songs we've sung before, In good old by-gone days.

We'll smoke to Alma Mater's name; She loves the cloud we raise! For well she knows the "biggest guns" Are in the coming days!

We'll smoke the times, the good old times, When we were called fire! Their light shall blaze in memory, Till the lamp of life expire!

Then let each smoking pipe be broke,— Hurrah for coming days! We'll take a march, a merry march, To meet the coming days!

H.P. PECK.



TOBACCO.

The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay, Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

The pipe that is so lily-white, Shows thee to be a mortal wight; And even such, gone with a touch, Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high, Thinke thou beholdst the vanity Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe, Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soule defil'd with sin, And then the fire it doth require. Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

The ashes that are left behind, May serve to put thee still in mind, That unto dust return thou must. Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

GEORGE WITHER, 1620.



VIRGINIA'S KINGLY PLANT.

BY AN "OLD SALT."

Oh, muse! grant me the power (I have the will) to sing How oft in lonely hour, When storms would round me lower, Tobacco's proved a king!

Philanthropists, no doubt With good intentions ripe, Their dogmas may put out, And arrogantly shout The evils of the pipe.

Kind moralists, with tracts, Opinions fine may show; Produce a thousand facts,— How ill tobacco acts Man's system to o'erthrow.

Learn'd doctors have employed Much patience, time, and skill, To prove tobacco cloyed With acrid alkaloid, With power the nerves to kill.

E'en popes have curst the plant; Kings bade its use to cease; But all the pontiff's rant And royal James's cant Ne'er made its use decrease.

Teetotalers may stamp And roar at pipes and beer; But place them in a swamp, When nights are dark and damp,— Their tunes would change, I fear.

No advocate am I Of excess in one or t'other, And ne'er essayed to try In wine to drown a sigh, Or a single care to smother.

Yet, in moderation pure, A glass is well enough; But a troubled heart to cure, Kind feelings to insure, Give me a cheerful puff.

How oft a learn'd divine His sermons will prepare, Not by imbibing wine, But 'neath th' influence fine Of a pipe of "baccy" rare!

How many a pleasing scene, How many a happy joke, How many a satire keen, Or problem sharp, has been Evolved or born of smoke!

How oft amidst the jar, Of storms on ruin bent, On shipboard, near or far, To the drenched and shiv'ring tar, Tobacco's solace lent!

Oh, tell me not 'tis bad, Or that it shortens life! Its charms can soothe the sad, And make the wretched glad, In trouble and in strife.

'Tis used in every clime, By all men, high and low; It is praised in prose and rhyme, And can but end with time; So let the kind herb grow!

'Tis a friend to the distress'd; 'Tis a comforter in need; It is social, soothing, blest; It has fragrance, force, and zest; Then hail the kingly weed!

ANON.



TOO GREAT A SACRIFICE.

The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty thousand dollars made so dear, To test Lothario's passion, simply said, "Forego the weed before we go to wed. For smoke, take flame; I'll be that flame's bright fanner. To have your Anna, give up your Havana." But he, when thus she brought him to the scratch, Lit his cigar, and threw away his match.

ANON.



TO A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and honored by the wise, Come filled with honest "Weekly's best," And kindled from the lofty skies.

While round me clouds of incense roll, With guiltless joys you charm the sense, And nobler pleasure to the soul In hints of moral truth dispense.

Soon as you feel th' enliv'ning ray, To dust you hasten to return, And teach me that my earliest day Began to give me to the urn.

But though thy grosser substance sink To dust, thy purer part aspires; This when I see, I joy to think That earth but half of me requires.

Like thee, myself am born to die, Made half to rise, and half to fall. Oh, could I, while my moments fly, The bliss you give me give to all!

Gentleman's Magazine, July, 1745.



In the smoke of my dear cigarito Cloud castles rise gorgeous and tall; And Eros, divine muchachito, With smiles hovers over it all.

But dreaming, forgetting to cherish The fire at my lips as it dies, The dream and the rapture must perish, And Eros descend from the skies.

O wicked and false muchachito, Your rapture I yet may recall; But, like my re-lit cigarito, A bitterness tinges it all.

CAMILLA K. VON K.



A GOOD CIGAR.

Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From the heart of a pipe to get; And a dainty maid Or a budding blade May toy with the cigarette; But a man, when the time Of a glorious prime Dawns forth like a morning star, Wants the dark-brown bloom And the sweet perfume That go with a good cigar.

To lazily float In a painted boat On a shimmering morning sea, Or to flirt with a maid In the afternoon shade Seems good enough sport to be; But the evening hour, With its subtle power, Is sweeter and better far, If joined to the joy, Devoid of alloy, That lurks in a good cigar.

When a blanket wet Is solidly set O'er hopes prematurely grown; When ambition is tame, And energy lame, And the bloom from the fruit is blown; When to dance and to dine With women and wine Past poverty pleasures are,— A man's not bereft Of all peace, if there's left The joy of a good cigar.

NORRIS BULL.



A glass is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe to smoke in cold weather; The world is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellows together.

JOHN O'KEEFE: Sprigs of Laurel, Act ii. sc. i.



MY FRIENDLY PIPE.

Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cigarettes, Whose opiates get in their pates Till waking brings regrets; Oh, let them doze, devoid of woes, Of troubles, and of frets.

And let the chap who loves to nap With his cigar in hand Pursue his way, and live his day, As runs time's changing sand; Let him delight by day and night In his peculiar brand.

But as for me, I love to be Provided with a pipe,— A rare old bowl to warm my soul, A meerschaum brown and ripe,— With good plug cut, no stump or butt, Nor filthy gutter-snipe.

My joys increase! It brings me peace As nothing else can do; From all the strife of daily life Here my relief is true. I watch its rings; it purrs and sings— And then it's cheaper, too!

Detroit Tribune.



ODE TO TOBACCO.

Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy suppliant attend In each dull, lonely hour; And though misfortunes lie around, Thicker than hailstones on the ground, I'll rest upon thy power. Then while the coxcomb, pert and proud, The politician, learned and loud, Keep one eternal clack, I'll tread where silent Nature smiles, Where Solitude our woe beguiles, And chew thee, dear Tobac.

DANIEL WEBSTER.



A BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY.

I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er knew the Benedict's yoke; I worship a fairy-like, fanciful form, That goes up the chimney in smoke.

I sit in my dressing-gowned slipperful ease, Without wife or bairns to provoke, And puff at my pipe, while my hopes and my fears All go up the chimney in smoke.

I sit with my pipe, and my heart's lonesome care I try, but all vainly, to choke. Ah, me! but I find that the flame that Love lights Won't go up the chimney in smoke.

Cigar and Tobacco World, London.



THE DREAMER'S PIPE.

Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the dreamer's lip, Fragrant odors from thy bowl Mingling with the dreamer's soul; Curling wreaths of smoke ascending, Comfort sweet with incense blending. Joy and peace and solace sending To the dreamer's heart.

Fashioned like a satyr's head, Crowned with fire, glowing red, Quaintly carved and softly sleek As Afric maiden's downy cheek. Comrade of each idle hour In forest shade or leafy bower; Lotus-eaters from thy power Ne'er can break apart.

Darkly colored from long use With tobacco's balmy juice From snowy white to ebon turned By the incense daily burned. Laid at night within thy case Of velvet soft—thy resting place— Whence with leering, stained face Daily thou must start,—

To soothe the dreamer's every care, To glow and burn and fill the air With thy curling perfume rare: As thou charmest gloom away, With the dreamer rest for aye Friend of youth, and manhood ripe All hail to thee, thou meerschaum pipe!

New Orleans Times Democrat.



SUBLIME TOBACCO.

But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breathing o'er the aromatic South, Not like a "bed of violets" on the gale, But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, Borne from a short, frail pipe, which yet had blown Its gentle odors over either zone, And, puff'd where'er minds rise or waters roll, Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, Opposed its vapor as the lightning flash'd, And reek'd, 'midst mountain billows unabashed, To AEolus a constant sacrifice, Through every change of all the varying skies. And what was he who bore it? I may err, But deem him sailor or philosopher. Sublime tobacco! which from east to west Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest; Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opiums and his brides; Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, Though not less loved, in Wapping on the Strand; Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caress More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties,—give me a cigar!

LORD BYRON:

The Island, Canto ii., Stanza 19.



SMOKING AWAY.

Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow-white plume of a maiden, The smoke-wreaths rise to the starlit skies With blissful fragrance laden.

Chorus. Then smoke away till a golden ray Lights up the dawn of the morrow, For a cheerful cigar, like a shield, will bar, The blows of care and sorrow.

The leaf burns bright, like the gems of light That flash in the braids of Beauty; It nerves each heart for the hero's part On the battle-plain of duty.

In the thoughtful gloom of his darkened room, Sits the child of song and story, But his heart is light, for his pipe burns bright, And his dreams are all of glory.

By the blazing fire sits the gray-haired sire, And infant arras surround him; And he smiles on all in that quaint old hall, While the smoke-curls float around him.

In the forest grand of our native land, When the savage conflict ended, The "pipe of peace" brought a sweet release From toil and terror blended.

The dark-eyed train of the maids of Spain 'Neath their arbor shades trip lightly, And a gleaming cigar, like a new-born star, In the clasp of their lips burns brightly

It warms the soul like the blushing bowl, With its rose-red burden streaming, And drowns it in bliss, like the first warm kiss From the lips with love-buds teeming.

FRANCIS MILES FINCH.



A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle, Some few vapors thou mayst raise The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The Old World was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant; only thou His true Indian conquest art; And for ivy round his dart The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume, Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite—

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use At a need when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamore, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more, Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,— Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.

Or as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart. While their sorrow's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys, Where, though I by sour physician Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife, And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces, And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

CHARLES LAMB.



A WINTER EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE.

Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewildering juice, We worship, unforbid of thee; And as her incense floats and curls In airy spires and wayward whirls, Or poises on its tremulous stalk A flower of frailest reverie, So winds and loiters, idly free, The current of unguided talk, Now laughter-rippled, and now caught In smooth dark pools of deeper thought Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, A sweetly unobtrusive third; For thou hast magic beyond wine To unlock natures each to each; The unspoken thought thou canst divine; Thou fill'st the pauses of the speech With whispers that to dreamland reach, And frozen fancy-springs unchain In Arctic outskirts of the brain. Sun of all inmost confidences, To thy rays doth the heart unclose Its formal calyx of pretences, That close against rude day's offences, And open its shy midnight rose!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.



MY PIPE AND I.

There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and true as steel. There are: and by their friendships firm Is life made only real. But, after all, of all these hearts That close with mine entwine, None lie so near, nor seem so dear As this old pipe of mine.

My silent friend—whose voice is held Fast for my ear alone— Stays with me always, well content, With Darby to be Joan. No fickleness disturbs our lot; No jars its peace to smother; Ah, no; my faithful pipe and I Have wooed and won—each other.

On clouds of curling incense sweet, We go—my pipe and I— To lands far off, where skies stay blue Through all the years that fly. And nights and days, with rosy dreams Teems bright—an endless throng That passing leave, in echoing wake, Soft murmurings of song.

Does this dream fade? Another comes To fill its place and more. In castles silvern roam we now, They're ours! All! All are ours! What'er the wreathing rings enfold Drops shimmering golden showers!

No sordid cost our steps can stay, We travel free as air. Our wings are fancies, incense-borne, That feather-light upbear. Begone! ye powers of steam and flood. Thy roads creep far too slow; We need thee not. My pipe and I Swifter than Time must go.

Why, what is this? The pipe gone out? Well, well, the fire's out, too! The dreams are gone—we're poor once more; Life's pain begins anew. 'Tis time for sleep, my faithful pipe, But may thy dreamings be, Through slumbering hours hued as bright As those thou gav'st to me!

ELTON J. BUCKLEY.



SIC TRANSIT.

Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of a year buried o'er, In a feminine hand and requesting My presence for tennis at four.

Half remorseful for leaving it lying In surroundings unworthy as those, I carefully dusted and smoothed it, And mutely begged pardon of Rose.

But I thought with a smile of the proverb Which says you may treat as you will The vase which has once contained roses, Their fragrance will cling to it still.

For the writer I scarcely remember, The occasion has vanished afar, And the fragrance that clings to the letter Recalls—an Havana cigar.

W.B. ANDERSON.



THE BETROTHED.

"YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR."

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space; In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at,—Maggie's a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away,—

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown,— But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie my wife at fifty,—gray and dour and old,— With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar,—

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket,— With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket.

Open the old cigar-box,—let me consider a while,— Here is a mild Manilla,—there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion,—bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a Suttee's passion,—to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy, who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear. But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box,—let me consider anew,— Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba: I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!

RUDYARD KIPLING.



ON A BROKEN PIPE.

Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with living inspirations warm; Type of all other creatures formed of clay— What more than it for epitaph have they?



A VALENTINE.

What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No. Alina? No. It does end with "ina," though. Guess again. Christina? No; Guess again. Wilhelmina? No. She reciprocates my flame, Cheers me wheresoe'er I go, Never forward, never coy, She is evermore my joy. Oh, the rapture! oh, the bliss! When I met my darling's kiss. Oh, I love her form to greet! Oh, her breath is passing sweet! Who could help but love her so? Nicotina, mistress mine, Thou shall be my Valentine.

ANON.



MY CIGARETTE.

My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and sorrow, The magic wand that, far beyond To-day, can conjure up to-morrow. Like love's desire, thy crown of fire So softly with the twilight blending; And ah, meseems a poet's dreams Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending.

My cigarette! Can I forget How Kate and I, in sunny weather, Sat in the shade the elm-tree made And rolled the fragrant weed together? I at her side, beatified To hold and guide her fingers willing; She rolling slow the papers snow, Putting my heart in with the filling.

My cigarette! I see her yet, The white smoke from her red lips curling, Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies, Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling! Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul Ebbs out in many a snowy billow, I too would burn, if I could earn Upon her lips so soft a pillow.

Ah, cigarette! The gay coquette Has long forgot the flame she lighted; And you and I unthinking by Alike are thrown, alike are slighted. The darkness gathers fast without, A raindrop on my window plashes; My cigarette and heart are out, And naught is left me but the ashes.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS.



THE PIPE CRITIC.

Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me? By my life, I'll ask not gods above To help me choose a wife; But to thy gentle self I'll give the puzzling strife.

Thy color let me find, And blue like smoke her eyes; A healthy store her mind As that which in thee lies,— An evanescent draft, whose incense mounts the skies.

And, pipe, a breath like thine; Her hair an amber gold, And wrought in shapes as fine As that which now I hold; A grace in every limb, her form thy slender mould.

And when her lips I kiss, Oh, may she burn like thee, And strive to give me bliss! A comforter to be When friends wax cold, time fades, and all departs from me.

And may she hide in smoke, As you, my friend, have done, The failings that would choke My virtues every one, Turn grief to laughing jest, or painful thought to fun.

Her aid be such as thine To stir my brain a bit. When 'round this hearth of mine Friends sit and banter wit, She'll shape a well-turned phrase, a subtle jest to hit.

In short, my sole delight (Why, pipe, you sputter so!), Whose angel visage bright (And at me ashes throw!) Shall never rival fear. You're jealous now, I know.

Nay, pipe, I'll not leave thee; For of thy gifts there's one That's passing dear to me Whose equal she'd have none,— The gift of peace serene; she'd have, alas, a tongue!

WALTER LITTLEFIELD.



A SONG WITHOUT A NAME.

AIR: "THE VICAR OF BRAY."

'Twas in Queen Bess's golden days That smoking came in fashion; And from the court it quickly spread Throughout the English nation. The courtiers first the lesson learnt, And burn'd the fragrant treasure; And e'en the queen herself, 'tis said, Would sometimes share the pleasure. But this is true, I will maintain,— And I am far from joking,— Of all the pleasures men have found There's none to equal smoking.

Then learned men and lawyers wise And grave divines and doctors Found smoking help'd to clear the brain, And puff'd away in flocks, sirs; Then business men and humble clerks And laborer and peasant By smoking care would drive away, And make this life more pleasant. For this is true. I will maintain,— And I am far from joking,— Of all the pleasures men have found There's none to equal smoking.

And from these times we modern men Great glory do inherit, And wealth and learning and the strength Which makes the English spirit. We have no care, we fear no foe, We pass our lifetime gayly, But little think how much we owe To great Sir Walter Raleigh. For this is true, I will maintain,— And I am far from joking,— Of all the pleasures men have found There's none to equal smoking.

W. LLOYD.



AD NICOTINA.

"A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE."

Let others sing the praise of wine; I'll tolerate no queen But one fair nymph of spotless line, The gentle Nicotine. Her breath's as sweet as any flower's, No matter where it blows, And makes this dull old world of ours The color of the rose.

There's not a pang but she can soothe, Nor spell but she can break, And e'en the hardest lot can smooth, And bid us courage take. Fair Nicotine! thou dost atone For many an aching heart; And I for one will gladly own The magic of thine art.

Ah, "friendly traitress," "loving foe," Forgive this loving lay; For I, thy worshipper, would show The sweetness of thy sway. "Sublime tobacco!" may thy reign Ne'er for one moment cease; For thou, Great Plant, art kin to brain, And synonym for peace.

E.H.S.



MEERSCHAUM.

Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organs play; And the torture they're inflicting Will vanish quite away.

I open my study window And into the twilight peer, And my anxious eyes are watching For the man with my evening beer.

In one hand is the shining pewter, All amber the ale doth glow; In t'other are long "churchwardens," As spotless and pure as snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us Tobaccoless?—Fearful bore! We should dread the day after to-morrow Worse than the day before.

As the elephant's trunk to the creature, Is the pipe to the man, I trow; Useful and meditative As the cud to the peaceful cow.

So to the world is smoking; Through that we feel, with bliss That, whatever worlds come after, A jolly old world is this.

Come to me, O my meerschaum, And whisper to me here, If you like me better than coffee, Than grog, or the bitter beer.

Oh! what are our biggest winnings, If peaceful content we miss? Though fortune may give us an innings She seldom conveys us bliss.

You're better than all the fortunes That ever were made or broke; For a penny will always fill And buy me content with a smoke.

WRONGFELLOW.



I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the waters blue. To laugh and float While rocks the boat Upon the waves,—Don't you?

To rest the oar And float to shore,— While soft the moonbeams shine,— To laugh and joke, And idly smoke; I think is quite divine.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.



"A FREE PUFF."

Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twenty—well! I don't forget How I walked along, Humming a song Across the fields and down the lane By the country road, and back again To the dear old farm—three miles or more— And brought you home from the village store.

Summer was passing—don't you recall The splendid harvest we had that Fall, And how when the Autumn died,—sober and brown,— We trudged down the turnpike, and on to the town?

Sweet black brierwood pipe of mine! If you were human you'd be half divine, For when I've looked beyond the smoke, into your burning bowl In times of need You've been, indeed, The only comfort, sweetest solace, of my overflowing soul. We've been together nearly thirty years, old fellow! And now, you must admit, we're both a trifle mellow. We have had our share of joys and a deal of sorrows, And while we're only waiting for a few more to-morrows, Others will come, and others will go, And Time will gather what Youth will sow; But we together will go down the rough Road to the end, and to the end—puff.

ARTHUR IRVING GRAY.



MY MEERSCHAUM PIPE.

Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred and blackened form, For thou to me wilt ever be— Whate'er betides the storm— A casket filled with memories Of life's Auroral morn.

Thou once wert fair like ivory rare; Spotless as lily white; Thy curving lines, like tendril'd vines, Were pleasing to the sight, And in thine ample bowl there lurked A promise of delight.

Like incense flung from censer swung Before some sculptured shrine, To float along with prayer and song To realms of bliss divine,— Ascend thy fragrant wreaths of smoke And with my thoughts entwine.

Old pipe, old friend, o'er thee doth bend The rainbow hues of life, While sorrows roll across my soul, And peace is turned to strife, And Faith drifts o'er a sea of doubt With desolation rife.

Alas, that man or pipe e'er can Wax old or know decay; Alas, that heart from heart must part, Or Love can lose its sway. And death in life should cast its pall Athwart the troubled way.

Tho' love be cross'd, and friends are lost, And severed every tie; Tho' hopes are dead and joys have fled, And darkened is the sky; We yet can warm each other's hearts, Old meerschaum pipe and I.

JOHNSON M. MUNDY.



A WARNING.

HE.

I loathe all books. I hate to see The world and men through others' eyes; My own are good enough for me. These scribbling fellows I despise; They bore me. I used to try to read a bit, But, when I did, a sleepy fit Came o'er me.

Yet here I sit with pensive look, Filling my pipe with fragrant loads, Gazing in rapture at a book!— A free translation of the Odes Of Horace. 'Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth, And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath Of orris.

I longed for something that was hers To cheer me when I'm feeling low; I saw this book of paltry verse, And asked to take it home—and so She lent it. I love her deep and tenderly, Yet dare not tell my love, lest she Resent it.

I'll learn to quote a stanza here, A couplet there. I'm very sure 'Twould aid my suit could I appear Au fait in books and literature. I'll do it! This jingle I can quickly learn; Then, hid in roses, I'll return Her poet!

SHE.

The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty, cherished book, The odor vile, the noisome taint Of horrid, stale tobacco-smoke Yet lingers! The hateful man, my book to spoil! Patrick, the tongs—lest I should soil My fingers!

This lovely rose, these lilies frail, These violets he has sent to me The odor of his pipe exhale! Am I to blame that I should be Enraged? Tell Mr. Simpson every time He calls upon me, Patrick, I'm Engaged!

ARTHUR LOVELL.



TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face, That you are in fashion all over the land, And I am so much fallen into disgrace.

"Do but see what a pretty contemplative air I give to the company,—pray do but note 'em,— You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there, Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.

"My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear."

Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging. The Box in reply was heard plainly to say, "What a silly dispute is this we are Waging!

"If you have a little of merit to claim, You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed; And I, if I seem to deserve any blame, The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.

"Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus; We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, But of anything else they may choose to put in us."

WM. COWPER.



A LOSS.

How hard a thing it is to part From those we love and cherish; How deeply does it pain one's heart To know all things must perish!

And when a friend and comrade dear Is lost to us forever, We feel how frail are all things here, Since e'en best friends must sever.

I, too, have lost a friend, who broke Its power when care was near me; And troubles disappeared in smoke When he was by to cheer me.

But as friends fall when valued most, Like fruit that over-ripe is. My loved companion I have lost,— That friend my meerschaum pipe is!

Judy (1873).



THE TRUE LEUCOTHOE.

Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, and beauty's smile; I choose a theme not less divine,— The plant that grows in Cuba's Isle.

The old Greeks err'd who bound with bays Apollo's brow; the verdant crown He wore, when measuring their days, Grew in the West, where he went down.

An idle tale they also told; They said he gave them frankincense, Borne by some tree he loved of old; If so, he gave a mere pretence.

For the true offspring of his love— Tobacco—grew far o'er the sea, Where Leucothoe from above Led him as honey leads the bee,

Till on that plant he paus'd to gaze Some moments ere he held his way, And cheer her with his warmest rays, Heedless of time or length of day.

Then with a sigh his brows he wreath'd With leaves that care and toil beguile, And bless'd, as their perfume he breath'd, The plant that grows in Cuba's Isle.

ANON.



THOSE ASHES.

Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette In a sinuous spray is reeling, Forming flower and minaret.

What delicious landscape floating On perfumed wings I see; Pale swans I am idly noting, And queens robed in filagree.

I see such delicious faces As ne'er man saw before, And my fancy fondly chases Sweet maids on a fairy shore.

Now to bits my air-castle crashes, And those pictures I see no more; My grandmother yells: "Them ashes— Don't drop them on the floor!"

R.K. MUNKITTRICK.



WHAT I LIKE.

To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the grassy bank of some calm stream— And smoke.

To climb with daring feet some rugged rock, And sit aloft where gulls and curlews flock— And smoke.

To wander lonely on the ocean's brink, And of the good old times to muse and think— And smoke.

To hide me in some deep and woody glen, Far from unhealthy haunts of sordid men— And smoke.

To linger in some fairy haunted vale, While all about me falls the moonlight pale— And smoke.

H.L.



MY MEERSCHAUMS.

Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High carved and plain, dark-hued and creamy, Slim tubes for cigarettes reserved, And stout ones for Havanas dreamy.

This cricket, on an amber spear Impaled, recalls that golden weather When love and I, too young to fear Heartburn, smoked cigarettes together.

And even now—too old to take The little papered shams for flavor— I light it oft for her sweet sake Who gave it, with her girlish favor.

And here's the mighty student bowl Whose tutoring in and after college Has led me nearer wisdom's goal Than all I learned of text-book knowledge.

"It taught me?" Ay, to hold my tongue, To keep a-light, and yet burn slowly, To break ill spells around me flung As with the enchanted whiff of Moly.

This nargileh, whose hue betrays Perique from soft Louisiana, In Egypt once beguiled the days Of Tewfik's dreamy-eyed Sultana.

Speaking of color,—do you know A maid with eyes as darkly splendid As are the hues that, rich and slow, On this Hungarian bowl have blended?

Can artist paint the fiery glints Of this quaint finger here beside it, With amber nail,—the lustrous tints, A thousand Partagas have dyed it?

"And this old silver patched affair?" Well, sir, that meerschaum has its reasons For showing marks of time and wear; For in its smoke through fifty seasons

My grandsire blew his cares away! And then, when done with life's sojourning, At seventy-five dropped dead one day, That pipe between his set teeth burning!

"Killed him?" No doubt! it's apt to kill In fifty year's incessant using— Some twenty pipes a day. And still, On that ripe, well-filled, lifetime musing,

I envy oft so bright a part,— To live as long as life's a treasure; To die of—not an aching heart, But—half a century of pleasure!

Well, well! I'm boring you, no doubt; How these old memories will undo one— I see you've let your weed go out; That's wrong! Here, light yourself a new one!

CHARLES F. LUMMIS.



ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest!

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told Not to thy credit: How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost,— Useless, except to roast— Doctors have said it;

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards, Go mad, and beat their wives, Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors,— Jones, who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J., Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco juice; Still, why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are; Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!

C.S. CALVERLY.



ON RECEIPT OF A RARE PIPE.

I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the wrappages, stripe after stripe, And when the hidden contents were laid bare, My first remark was: "Mercy, what a pipe!"

A pipe of symmetry that matched its size, Mounted with metal bright,—a sight to see; With the rich amber hue that smokers prize, Attesting both its age and pedigree.

A pipe to make the royal Friedrich jealous, Or the great Teufelsdroeckh with envy gripe! A man should hold some rank above his fellows To justify his smoking such a pipe!

What country gave it birth? What blest of cities Saw it first kindle at the glowing coal? What happy artist murmured, "Nunc dimittis," When he had fashioned this transcendent bowl?

Has it been hoarded in a monarch's treasures? Was it a gift of peace, or prize of war? Did the great Khalif in his "House of Pleasures" Wager and lose it to the good Zaafar?

It may have soothed mild Spenser's melancholy, While musing o'er traditions of the past, Or graced the lips of brave Sir Walter Raleigh, Ere sage King Jamie blew his "Counterblast."

Did it, safe hidden in some secret cavern, Escape that monarch's pipoclastic ken? Has Shakespeare smoked it at the Mermaid Tavern, Quaffing a cup of sack with rare old Ben?

Ay, Shakespeare might have watched his vast creations Loom through its smoke,—the spectre-haunted Thane, The Sisters at their ghostly invocations, The jealous Moor, and melancholy Dane.

Round its orbed haze and through its mazy ringlets, Titania may have led her elfin rout, Or Ariel fanned it with his gauzy winglets, Or Puck danced in the bowl to put it out.

Vain are all fancies,—questions bring no answer; The smokers vanish, but the pipe remains; He were indeed a subtle necromancer, Could read their records in its cloudy stains.

Nor this alone. Its destiny may doom it To outlive e'en its use and history; Some ploughman of the future may exhume it From soil now deep beneath the Eastern sea.

And, treasured by soma antiquarian Stultus, It may to gaping visitors be shown Labelled: "The symbol of some ancient cultus Conjecturally Phallic, but unknown."

Why do I thus recall the ancient quarrel Twixt Man and Time, that marks all earthly things? Why labor to re-word the hackneyed moral [Greek: Hos phyllon genee], as Homer sings? '[Omega][sigmaf] [phi][upsilon][lambda][lambda][omega][nu] [gamma][epsilon][nu][epsilon][eta], as Homer sings?

For this: Some links we forge are never broken; Some feelings claim exemption from decay; And Love, of which this pipe is but the token, Shall last, though pipes and smokers pass away.

W.H.B.



MY LITTLE BROWN PIPE.

I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: It is not any woman's face Set in a golden locket; It is not any kind of purse; It is not book or letter, But yet at times I really think That it is something better.

Oh, my pipe, my little brown pipe! How oft, at morning early, When vexed with thoughts of coming toil, And just a little surly, I sit with thee till things get clear, And all my plans grow steady, And I can face the strife of life With all my senses steady.

No matter if my temper stands At stormy, fair, or clearing, My pipe has not for any mood A word of angry sneering. I always find it just the same, In care, or joy, or sorrow, And what it is to-day I know It's sure to be to-morrow.

It helps me through the stress of life; It balances my losses; It adds a charm to all my joys, And lightens all my crosses. For through the wreathing, misty veil Joy has a softer splendor, And life grows sweetly possible, And love more truly tender.

Oh, I have many richer joys! I do not underrate them, And every man knows what I mean, I do not need to state them. But this I say,—I'd rather miss A deal of what's called pleasure, Than lose my little comforter, My little smoky treasure.

AMELIA E. BARR.



Forsaken of all comforts but these two,— My fagot and my pipe—I sit to muse On all my crosses, and almost excuse The heavens for dealing with me as they do. When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow, Such cheerful expectations doth infuse As makes me think ere long I cannot choose But be some grandee, whatsoe'er I'm now. But having spent my pipe, I then perceive That hopes and dreams are cousins,—both deceive. Then mark I this conclusion in my mind, It's all one thing,—both tend into one scope,— To live upon Tobacco and on Hope: The one's but smoke, the other is but wind.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.



'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.

'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer day, I sat upon the quarter deck, And whiffed my cares away; And as the volumed smoke arose, Like incense in the air, I breathed a sigh to think, in sooth, It was my last cigar.

I leaned upon the quarter rail, And looked down in the sea; E'en there the purple wreath of smoke, Was curling gracefully; Oh! what had I at such a time To do with wasting care? Alas! the trembling tear proclaimed It was my last cigar.

I watched the ashes as it came Fast drawing toward the end; I watched it as a friend would watch Beside a dying friend; But still the flame swept slowly on; It vanished into air; I threw it from me,—spare the tale,— It was my last cigar.

I've seen the land of all I love Fade in the distance dim; I've watched above the blighted heart, Where once proud hope hath been; But I've never known a sorrow That could with that compare, When off the blue Canaries I smoked my last cigar.

JOSEPH WARREN FABENS.



LATAKIA.

I.

When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wizard-work of silver lace, I draw my sofa on the rug, Before the ancient chimney-place. Upon the painted tiles are mosques And minarets, and here and there A blind muezzin lifts his hands, And calls the faithful unto prayer. Folded in idle, twilight dreams, I hear the hemlock chirp and sing, As if within its ruddy core It held the happy heart of Spring. Ferdousi never sang like that, Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay; I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke, And watch them rise and float away.

II.

The curling wreaths like turbans seem Of silent slaves that come and go,— Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime, Whom I behead from time to time, With pipe-stem, at a single blow. And now and then a lingering cloud Takes gracious form at my desire, And at my side my lady stands, Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,— A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!

O Love, if you were only here Beside me in this mellow light, Though all the bitter winds should blow, And all the ways be choked with snow, 'Twould be a true Arabian night!

T.B. ALDRICH.



MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.

Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude at home, Perchance an ultra-bilious fit Paints all the world an orange chrome.

When Fear and Care and grim Despair Flock round me in a ghostly crowd, One charm dispels them all in air,— I blow my after-dinner cloud.

'Tis melancholy to devour The gentle chop in loneliness. I look on six—my prandial hour— With dread not easy to express.

And yet for every penance done, Due compensation seems allow'd. My penance o'er, its price is won,— I blow my after-dinner cloud.

My clay is not a Henry Clay,— I like it better on the whole; And when I fill it, I can say, I drown my sorrows in the bowl.

For most I love my lowly pipe When weary, sad, and leaden-brow'd; At such a time behold me ripe To blow my after-dinner cloud.

As gracefully the smoke ascends In columns from the weed beneath, My friendly wizard, Fancy, lends A vivid shape to every wreath.

Strange memories of life or death Up from the cradle to the shroud, Come forth as, with enchanter's breath, I blow my after-dinner cloud.

What wonder if it stills my care To quit the present for the past, And summon back the things that were, Which only thus in vapor last?

What wonder if I envy not The rich, the giddy, and the proud, Contented in this quiet spot To blow my after-dinner cloud?

HENRY S. LEIGH.



THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.

When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and pipe put by, And Smoked and Smoker both alike In dust and ashes lie, What of the Smoker? Whither passed? Ah, will he smoke no more? And will there be no golden cloud Upon the golden shore? Ah! who shall say we cry in vain To Fate upon his hill, For, howsoe'er we ask and ask, He goes on smoking still. But, surely, 'twere a bitter thing If other men pursue Their various earthly joys again Beyond that distant blue, If the poor Smoker might not ply His peaceful passion too. If Indian braves may still up there On merry scalpings go, And buried Britons rise again With arrow and with bow, May not the Smoker hope to take His "cutty" from below? So let us trust; and when at length You lay me 'neath the yew, Forget not, O my friends, I pray, Pipes and tobacco too!

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.



SWEET SMOKING PIPE.

Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion still of my retreat, Thou dost my gloomy thoughts remove, And purge my brain with gentle heat.

Tobacco, charmer of my mind, When, like the meteor's transient gleam. Thy substance gone to air I find, I think, alas, my life's the same!

What else but lighted dust am I? Then shew'st me what my fate will be; And when thy sinking ashes die, I learn that I must end like thee.

ANON.



CIGARETTE RINGS.

How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; I'm too sleepy to read and too lazy to write; So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl, And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl. In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimes There's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes; There's a world of romance that persistently clings To the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings!

What a picture comes back from the passed-away times! They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes; See how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes, As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes! He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes. Ah, the dearest of voices delightfully sings Through the wind intertwining of Cigarette Rings!

How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time, When winds whispered low 'neath the tremulous lime! How sweet, too, that bunch of forget-me-nots blue— The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true! Ah, the words of a woman concerning such things Are weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!

J. ASHBY-STERRY.



SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.

The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently sufficient grounds, to the Rev. Ralph Erskine, or, as he designated himself, "Ralph Erskine, V.D.M." The peasantry throughout the North of England always called it "Erskine Song;" and not only is his name given as the author in numerous chap-books, but in his own volume of "Gospel Sonnets," from an early copy of which this version is transcribed. The discovery, however, by Mr. Collier of the First Part in a MSS. temp. James I., with the initials "G.W." affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine's claim to the honor of the entire authorship. G.W. is supposed to be George Wither; but this is purely conjectural, and it is not at all improbable that G.W. really stands for W.G., as it was a common practice among anonymous writers to reverse their initials.

The history, then, of the poem seems to be this: that the First Part, as it is now printed, originally constituted the whole production, being complete in itself; that the Second Part was afterwards added by the Rev. Ralph Erskine, and that both parts came subsequently to be ascribed to him, as his was the only name published in connection with the song. See "Ballads of the Peasantry," Bell's edition. Variants of this song will be found on pages 86 and 150 of the present collection; the first is ascribed to George Wither, and the other is taken from the first volume of "Pills to purge Melancholy."

PART I.

This Indian weed, now withered quite. Tho' green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay, All flesh is hay: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The pipe, so lily-like and weak, Does thus thy mortal state bespeak; Thou art e'en such— Gone with a touch: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high, Then thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff— Gone with a puff: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soul defiled with sin; For then the fire It doth require: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And seest the ashes cast away, Then to thyself thou mayest say, That to the dust Return thou must: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

PART II.

Was this small plant for thee cut down? So was the Plant of Great Renown, Which Mercy sends For nobler ends: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

Does juice medicinal proceed From such a naughty foreign weed? Then what's the power Of Jesse's Flower? Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The promise, like the pipe, inlays, And by the mouth of faith conveys What virtue flows From Sharon's Rose: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

In vain the unlighted pipe you blow; Your pains in outward means are so, 'Till heavenly fire Your heart inspire: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The smoke, like burning incense, towers: So should a praying heart of yours, With ardent cries, Surmount the skies: Thus think, and smoke tobacco.



TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED.

Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut down at eve; It shows decay; we are but clay; Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The pipe that is so lily white, Wherein so many take delight, Is broke with a touch,—man's life is such; Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The pipe that is so foul within Shows how man's soul is stained with sin, And then the fire it doth require; Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The ashes that are left behind Do serve to put us all in mind That unto dust return we must; Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

The smoke that does so high ascend Shews us man's life must have an end; The vapor's gone,—man's life is done; Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

From "Pills to Purge Melancholy."



TOBACCO.

Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love, or Glory, still My theme shall be Tobacco! Hail, weed, eclipsing every flow'r, Of thee I fain would make my bow'r, When fortune frowns, or tempests low'r, Mild comforter of woe!

They say in truth an angel's foot First brought to life thy precious root, The source of every pleasure! Descending from the skies he press'd With hallowed touch Earth's yielding breast; Forth sprang the plant, and then was bless'd, As man's chief treasure!

Throughout the world who knows thee not? Of palace and of lowly cot The universal guest,— The friend of Gentile, Turk, and Jew, To all a stay, to none untrue, The balm that can our ills subdue, And soothe us into rest!

With thee the poor man can abide Oppression, want, the scorn of pride, The curse of penury. Companion of his lonely state, He is no longer desolate, And still can brave an adverse fate With honest worth and thee!

All honor to the patriot bold Who brought, instead of promised gold, Thy leaf to Britain's shore. It cost him life; but thou shalt raise A cloud of fragrance to his praise, And bards shall hail in deathless lays The valiant knight of yore.

Ay, Raleigh! thou wilt live till Time Shall ring his last oblivious chime, The fruitful theme of story; And man in ages hence shall tell How greatness, virtue, wisdom, fell, When England sounded out thy knell, And dimmed her ancient glory.

And thou, O plant! shalt keep his name Unwithered in the scroll of fame, And teach us to remember; He gave with thee content and peace, Bestow'd on life a longer lease, And bidding every trouble cease, Made summer of December.

THOMAS JONES.



THE CIGAR.

Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar.

Some fret themselves to death With Whig and Tory jar; I don't care which is in, So I have my cigar.

Sir John requests my vote, And so does Mr. Marr; I don't care how it goes, So I have my cigar.

Some want a German row, Some wish a Russian war; I care not. I'm at peace So I have my cigar.

I never see the "Post," I seldom read the "Star;" The "Globe" I scarcely heed, So I have my cigar.

Honors have come to men My juniors at the Bar; No matter—I can wait, So I have my cigar.

Ambition frets me not; A cab or glory's car Are just the same to me, So I have my cigar.

I worship no vain gods, But serve the household Lar; I'm sure to be at home, So I have my cigar.

I do not seek for fame, A general with a scar; A private let me be, So I have my cigar.

To have my choice among The toys of life's bazaar, The deuce may take them all So I have my cigar.

Some minds are often tost By tempests like a tar; I always seem in port, So I have my cigar.

The ardent flame of love, My bosom cannot char, I smoke but do not burn, So I have my cigar.

They tell me Nancy Low Has married Mr. R.; The jilt! but I can live, So I have my cigar.

THOMAS HOOD.



PIPE AND TOBACCO.

When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need not envy here; And as the smoke fades in the wind, Our fleeting life it brings to mind.

Noble weed! that comforts life, And art with calmest pleasures rife; Heaven grant thee sunshine and warm rain, And to thy planter health and gain.

Through thee, friend of my solitude, With hope and patience I'm endued, Deep sinks thy power within my heart, And cares and sorrows all depart.

Then let non-smokers rail forever; Shall their hard words true friends dissever? Pleasure's too rare to cast away My pipe, for what the railers say!

When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me, When friends are fled, thy presence charms me; If thou art full, though purse be bare, I smoke, and cast away all care!

German Folk Song.



THE LATEST CONVERT.

I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Nellie, Katie, Mary— To name them all would stretch my rhymes From here as far as Demerary.

But each has wed some other man,— Girls always do, I find, in real life,— And I am left alone to scan The horizon of my own ideal life.

I still survive. I was, I think, Not born to run in double harness; I did not shirk my food and drink When Nellie married Harry Carnice.

But I am wedded to my pipe! That faithful friend, nought can provoke it; Should it grow cold, I gently wipe Its mouth, then fill it, light, and smoke it.

But it is sweet to kiss; and I Should love to kiss a wife and pet her— She scolds? Straight to my pipe I fly; Her scowls through fragrant smoke look better.

There's merry Maud—with her I'd dare To brave the matrimonial ocean; She would not pout or fret, but wear A constant smile of sweet devotion.

How know I that she will not change, My wishes at defiance set? Oh! (Pray this in smallest type arrange) She smokes—at times—a cigareto.

F.W. LITTLETON HAY.



CONFESSION OF A CIGAR SMOKER.

I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole of my success; With my cigar I'm sage and wise,— Without, I'm dull as cloudy skies. When smoking, all my ideas soar, When not, they sink upon the floor. The greatest men have all been smokers, And so were all the greatest jokers. Then ye who'd bid adieu to care, Come here and smoke it into air.

ANON.



Sir Walter Raleigh! name of worth, How sweet for thee to know King James, who never smoked on earth, Is smoking down below.



THE SMOKER'S CALENDAR.

When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit cheers; And still it glads the length'ning day 'Neath February's milder sway. When March's keener winds succeed, What charms me like the burning weed When April mounts the solar car, I join him, puffing a cigar; And May, so beautiful and bright, Still finds the pleasing weed a-light. To balmy zephyrs it gives zest When June in gayest livery's drest. Through July, Flora's offspring smile, But still Nicotia's can beguile; And August, when its fruits are ripe, Matures my pleasure in a pipe. September finds me in the garden, Communing with a long churchwarden. Even in the wane of dull October I smoke my pipe and sip my "robar." November's soaking show'rs require The smoking pipe and blazing fire. The darkest day in drear December's— That's lighted by their glowing embers.

ANON.



AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.

As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till in shadowy design I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low, to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco, and to vanish with the smoke.

'Tis a fragrant retrospection, for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine— When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart of mine.

Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children and the mother as she sings, I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream.

In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm; For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.

A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes, As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.

I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her, and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew round the stump," she loved me,—that old sweetheart of mine!

And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned: When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to;

When we should live together in a cozy little cot, Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine;

And I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in heaven till the other's kiss had come.

But ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and my wife is standing there! Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.



A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Let the learned talk of books, The glutton of cooks, The lover of Celia's soft smack—O! No mortal can boast So noble a toast As a pipe of accepted tobacco.

Let the soldier for fame, And a general's name, In battle get many a thwack—O! Let who will have most, Who will rule the rooste, Give me but a pipe of tobacco.

Tobacco gives wit To the dullest old cit, And makes him of politics crack—O! The lawyers i' the hall Were not able to bawl, Were it not for a whiff of tobacco.

The man whose chief glory Is telling a story, Had never arrived at the smack—O! Between ever heying, And as I was saying, Did he not take a whiff of tobacco.

The doctor who places Much skill in grimaces, And feels your pulse running tic-tack—O! Would you know his chief skill? It is only to fill And smoke a good pipe of tobacco.

The courtiers alone To this weed are not prone; Would you know what 'tis makes them so slack—O? 'Twas because it inclined To be honest the mind, And therefore they banished tobacco.

HENRY FIELDING.



Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. What needs my Muse to sing thy various praise? In country or in town, on land or sea, The weed is still delightful company. In joy or sorrow, grief or racking pain, We fly to thee for solace once again. Delicious plant, by all the world consumed, 'Tis pity thou, like man, to ashes too art doom'd.

ANON.



Tobacco, some say, is a potent narcotic, That rules half the world in a way quite despotic; So, to punish him well for his wicked and merry tricks, We'll burn him forthwith, as they used to do heretics.



TO MY CIGAR.

The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes happy thoughts flow, And drives sorrow afar.

The stronger the wind blows, The brighter thou burnest! The dreariest of life's woes, Less gloomy thou turnest!

As I feel on my lip Thy unselfish kiss, Like thy flame-colored tip, All is rosy-hued bliss.

No longer does sorrow Lay weight on my heart; And all fears of the morrow, In joy-dreams depart.

Sweet cheerer of sadness! Life's own happy star! I greet thee with gladness, My friendly cigar!

FRIEDRICH MARC.



CIGARS AND BEER.

Here With my beer I sit, While golden moments flit. Alas! They pass Unheeded by; And, as they fly, I, Being dry, Sit idly sipping here My beer.

Oh, finer far Than fame or riches are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar! Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead, My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer,— Cigars and beer?

Go, whining youth, Forsooth! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,— But leave me to my beer! Gold is dross, Love is loss; So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown Without a cross!

GEORGE ARNOLD.



EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER.

Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, Your fame to raise, Upon its blaze, Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre! Tempting Fate's stroke; Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke. Safe in my chair from wounds and woe, My fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow.

Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs, The public smokes, You and your hoax, And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs. Ye through the nose Pay for each puff; when mine the same way flows, It does not run me into debt; And thus, the more I fume, the less I fret.

Authors! created to be puff'd to death, And fill the mouth Of some uncouth Bookselling wight, who sucks your brains and breath, Your leaves thus far (Without its fire) resemble my cigar; But vapid, uninspired, and flat: When, when, O Bards, will ye compose like that?

Since life and the anxieties that share Our hopes and trust, Are smoke and dust, Give me the smoke and dust that banish care. The roll'd leaf bring, Which from its ashes, Phoenix-like, can spring; The fragrant leaf whose magic balm Can, like Nepenthe, all our sufferings charm.

Oh, what supreme beatitude is this! What soft and sweet Sensations greet My soul, and wrap it in Elysian bliss! I soar above Dull earth in these ambrosial clouds, like Jove, And from my empyrean height Look down upon the world with calm delight.

HORACE SMITH.



A POT, AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant enough To those who have got the right knack, O! But give me, my boys, Those exquisite joys, A pot, and a pipe of tobacco.

When fume follows fume To the top of the room, In circles pursuing their track, O! How sweet to inhale The health-giving gale Of a pipe of Virginia tobacco.

Let soldiers so bold For fame or for gold Their enemies cut, slash, and hack, O! We have fire and smoke, Though all but in joke, In a peaceable pipe of tobacco.

Should a mistress, unkind, Be inconstant in mind, And on your affections look black, O! Let her wherrit and tiff, 'Twill blow off in a whiff, If you take but a pipe of tobacco.

The miserly elf, Who, in hoarding his pelf, Keeps body and soul on the rack, O! Would he bless and be blest, He might open his chest By taking a pipe of tobacco.

Politicians so wise, All ears and all eyes For news, till their addled pates crack, O! After puzzling their brains, Will not get for their pains The worth of a pipe of tobacco

If your land in the claw Of a limb of the law You trust, or your health to a quack, O! 'Tis fifty to one They're both as soon gone As you'd puff out a pipe of tobacco.

Life's short, 'tis agreed; So we'll try from the weed, Of man a brief emblem to tack, O! When his spirit ascends, Die he must,—and he ends In dust, like a pipe of tobacco.

From "The Universal Songster, or Museum of Mirth."



IF I WERE KING.

If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies of time and chance are seldom clear, We would inform them all, with bland blue weather. Delight alone would need to shed a tear, For dream and deed should war no more together.

Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear; Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather; And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere, If I were king.

But politics should find no harbour near; The Philistine should fear to slip his tether; Tobacco should be duty free, and beer; In fact, in room of this, the age of leather, An age of gold all radiant should appear, If I were king.

W.E. HENLEY.



THE PIPE YOU MAKE YOURSELF.

There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well, There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes—things jes made to sell; But any pipe that kin be bought fer marbles, chalk, or pelf, Ain't ekal to the flaver of th' pipe you make yourself.

Jest take a common corn cob an' whittle out the middle, Then plug up one end of it as tight as any fiddle; Fit a stem into th' side an' lay her on th' shelf, An' when she's dry you take her down, that pipe you made yourself.

Cram her full clar to th' brim with nachral leaf, you bet— 'T will smoke a trifle better for bein' somewhat wet— Take your worms and fishin' pole, and a jug along for health, An' you'll get a taste o' heaven from that pipe you made yourself.

There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well, There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes—things jes made to sell; But any pipe that kin be bought for marbles, chalk, or pelf, Ain't ekal to th' flayer of the pipe you make yourself.

HENRY E. BROWN.



CHIBOUQUE.

At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his palace lolls at ease; Latakieh fumes his sensual palate please, While round-limbed almees dance near his divan.

Slaves lure away ennui with flowers and fan; And as his gem-tipped chibouque glows, he sees, In dreamy trance, those marvellous mysteries The prophet sings of in the Al-Koran!

Pale, dusk-eyed girls, with sequin-studded hair, Dart through the opal clouds like agile deer, With sensuous curves his fancy to provoke,— Delicious houris, ravishing and fair, Who to his vague and drowsy mind appear Like fragrant phantoms arabesqued in smoke!

FRANCIS S. SALTUS.



IN ROTTEN ROW.

In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no regret For all the tumult that had been. The distances were still and green, And streaked with shadows cool and wet.

Two sweethearts on a bench were set, Two birds among the boughs were met; So love and song were heard and seen In Rotten Row.

A horse or two there was to fret The soundless sand; but work and debt, Fair flowers and falling leaves between, While clocks are chiming clear and keen, A man may very well forget In Rotten Row.

W.E. HENLEY.



THE DUET.

I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the tenor, McKey, Were singing together a blithe duet, And days it were better I should forget Came suddenly back to me,— Days when life seemed a gay masque ball, And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.

As they sang together, the whole scene fled, The room's rich hangings, the sweet home air, Stately Maud, with her proud blond head, And I seemed to see in her place instead A wealth of blue-black hair, And a face, ah! your face—yours, Lisette; A face it were wiser I should forget.

We were back—well, no matter when or where; But you remember, I know, Lisette. I saw you, dainty and debonair, With the very same look that you used to wear In the days I should forget. And your lips, as red as the vintage we quaffed, Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed.

Two small slippers with big rosettes Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there, While we sat smoking our cigarettes (Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets!) And singing that self-same air: And between the verses, for interlude, I kissed your throat and your shoulders nude.

You were so full of a subtle fire, You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette; You were everything men admire; And there were no fetters to make us tire, For you were—a pretty grisette. But you loved as only such natures can, With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.

They have ceased singing that old duet, Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey. "You are burning your coat with your cigarette, And qu'avez vous, dearest, your lids are wet," Maud says, as she leans o'er me. And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise, "Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes."

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.



MY CIGARETTE.

Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry? Why this small tear, So pure and clear, In each blue eye?

"My cigarette— I 'm smoking yet?" (I'll be discreet.) I toss it, see, Away from me Into the street.

You see I do All things for you. Come, let us sup. (But, oh, what joy To be that boy Who picked it up.)

TOM HALL.



A BACHELOR'S VIEWS.

A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,—at least its embers; A dog, a glass:— 'Tis thus we pass Such hours as one remembers.

Who'd wish to wed? Poor Cupid's dead These thousand years, I wager. The modern maid Is but a jade, Not worth the time to cage her.

In silken gown To "take" the town Her first and last ambition. What good is she To you or me Who have but a "position"?

So let us drink To her,—but think Of him who has to keep her; And sans a wife Let's spend our life In bachelordom,—it's cheaper.

TOM HALL.



PIPES AND BEER.

Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old under-ground room I knew, And sip cheap beer, and be glad for it, With a wild Bohemian friend or two.

And oh, it was joy to loiter thus, At peace in the heart of the city's stir, Entombed, while life hurried over us, In our lazy bacchanal sepulchre.

There was artist George, with the blond Greek head, And the startling creeds, and the loose cravat; There was splenetic journalistic Fred, Of the sharp retort and the shabby hat;

There was dreamy Frank, of the lounging gait, Who lived on nothing a year, or less, And always meant to be something great, But only meant, and smoked to excess;

And last myself, whom their funny sneers Annoyed no whit as they laughed and said, I listened to all their grand ideas And wrote them out for my daily bread!

The Teuton beer-bibbers came and went, Night after night, and stared, good folk, At our table, noisy with argument, And our chronic aureoles of smoke.

And oh, my life! but we all loved well The talk,—free, fearless, keen, profound,— The rockets of wit that flashed and fell In that dull old tavern under-ground!

But there came a change in my days at last, And fortune forgot to starve and stint, And the people chose to admire aghast The book I had eaten dirt to print.

And new friends gathered about me then, New voices summoned me there and here; The world went down in my dingy den, And drew me forth from the pipes and beer.

I took the stamp of my altered lot, As the sands of the certain seasons ran, And slowly, whether I would or not, I felt myself growing a gentleman.

But now and then I would break the thrall, I would yield to a pang of dumb regret, And steal to join them, and find them all, With the amber wassail near them yet,—

Find, and join them, and try to seem A fourth for the old queer merry three, With my fame as much of a yearning dream As my morrow's dinner was wont to be.

But the wit would lag, and the mirth would lack, And the god of jollity hear no call, And the prosperous broadcloth on my back Hung over their spirits like a pall!

It was not that they failed, each one, to try Their warmth of welcome to speak and show; I should just have risen and said good-bye, With a haughty look, had they served me so.

It was rather that each would seem, instead, With not one vestige of spleen or pride, Across a chasm of change to spread His greeting hands to the further side.

And our gladdest words rang strange and cold, Like the echoes of other long-lost words; And the nights were no more the nights of old Than spring would be spring without the birds!

So they waned and waned, these visits of mine, 'Till I married the heiress, ending here. For if caste approves the cigars and wine, She must frown perforce upon pipes and beer.

And now 'tis years since I saw these men, Years since I knew them living yet. And of this alone I am sure since then,— That none has gained what he toiled to get.

For I keep strict watch on the world of art, And George, with his wide, rich-dowered brain! His fervent fancy, his ardent heart, Though he greatly toiled, has toiled in vain.

And Fred, for all he may sparkle bright In caustic column, in clever quip, Of a truth must still be hiding his light Beneath the bushel of journalship.

And dreamy Frank must be dreaming still, Lounging through life, if yet alive, Smoking his vast preposterous fill, Lounging, smoking, striving to strive.

And I, the fourth in that old queer throng, Fourth and least, as my soul avows,— I alone have been counted strong, I alone have the laurelled brows!

Well, and what has it all been worth? May not my soul to my soul confess That "succeeding," here upon earth, Does not alway assume success?

I would cast, and gladly, from this gray head Its crown, to regain one sweet lost year With artist George, with splenetic Fred, With dreamy Frank, with the pipes and beer!

EDGAR FAWCETT.



A BACHELOR'S INVOCATION.

When all my plans have come to grief, And every bill is due, And every faith that's worth belief Has proved itself untrue; And when, as now, I've jilted been By every girl I've met, Ah! then I flee for peace to thee, My darling cigarette.

Hail, sorceress! whose cloudy spells About my senses driven, Alone can loose their prison cells And waft my soul to heaven. Above all earthly loves, I swear, I hold thee best—and yet, Would I could see a match for thee, My darling cigarette.

With lips unstained to thee I bring A lover's gentle kiss, And woo thee, see, with this fair ring, And this, and this, and this. But ah, the rings no sooner cease (Inconstant, vain coquette!) Than, like the rest, thou vanishest In smoke, my cigarette.

Pall Mall Gazette.

THE END