Chapter XII: Preface (12)

Burn turn’d and cried, with scornful eye,
“Perchance thou’rt one of Martin’s fry,
And seek’st occasion base to take,
The vile informer’s gain to make.”
Word of denial though I spoke,
Full on my brow his fury broke,
And thus, while I return’d the stroke,
I exclaim’d,
“Had I an” &c.

To us, infringing thus the peace,
Approach’d its guardians――the police;
And, like inevitable Fate,
Bore us to where stern Justice sate:
Her minister the tale I told,
And to support my word, made bold
To crave he would the ass behold:
“For,” I declared,
“Had I an” &c.

They call’d the creature into court,
Where, sooth to say, he made some sport,
With ears erect, and parted jaws,
As though he strove to plead his cause:
I gain’d the palm of feelings kind;
The ass was righted; William fined.
For Justice, one with me in mind,
Exclaim’d, by her Minister,
“Had I an” &c.

Cried William to his Judge, “’Tis hard
(Think not the fine that I regard),
But things have reach’d a goodly pass――
One may not beat a stubborn ass!”
Nought spoke the Judge, but closed his book;
So William thence the creature took,
Eyeing me――ah! with what a look,
As gently whispering in his ear, I said,
“William, had I an,” &c.

_Punch._ February 17, 1844.

――――

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

(_A propos of Jumbo._)

If _I_ owned Jumbó,
(Who declines to go)
Would I sell him to a show?
No, no, not I!
When the Titan I saw
Firmly plant his paw,
I would shout “Hooraw!”
For his bra-ve-ry.

_Chorus._
If an army of Yankees should proffer their pay,
I’d button my pockets, and send them away.

* * * * *

_Punch._ March 4, 1884.

――――

ON LORD GUMBOIL.

What are you doing, my pretty maid?
I’m mashing a lord, kind sir, she said.
Then pray be careful, my pretty maid;
I’m more than seven, sir, she said.
What is his father, my pretty maid?
His father’s a lawyer, sir, she said.
Say, has he married you, my pretty maid?
No, an it please you, kind sir, she said.
What will you do then, my pretty maid?
I’ll sue on his promise, sir, she said.
Then has he a fortune, my pretty maid!
He’s got one――at present――sir, she said.

PENZANCE.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ April 13, 1884.

――――

There was an old statesman,
And what do you think?
He used mountains of paper,
And oceans of ink,
And even on postcards would issue his fiat,
And yet this great statesman
Could never rest quiet.

AUGUST FIFTEENTH.

_Truth._ June 14, 1888.

――――:o:――――

THE LEGISLATIVE ORGAN.

[“The capacity of our Legislative Organ is limited. Its strength is overtaxed. In its perspective, the first place is held by the great and urgent Irish question. Still more limited are the means, especially as to the future, possessed by a man on the margin of his eightieth year.”――_Mr. Gladstone’s letter._]

Seated long since at the organ,
I strummed in my weary way;
And my fancies wandered widely
For a popular air to play.
I know not what I was doing,
(And I cannot explain it still),
But I struck one chord of faction;
Like the sound of a Home Rule Bill.

It startled the House and the Empire,
With a fantasy wild and new;
And it shattered a mighty party
Like a thunderbolt from the blue.
And I struggled and “reconstructed,”
But passions I could not cool;
So I gave up my seat at the organ,
Where I might not play “Home Rule.”

Yet still on that worn-out Organ
I shall strike those chords once more;
And sing in life’s sunless gloaming,
The song that I learnt of yore;
And the Law of the Land shall quaver
In tune to a plundering Plan,
When the grand Old English Organ
Shall throb to the Grand Old Man.

_The St. James’s Gazette._ 1889.

――――:o:――――

AN UTTER PASSION UTTERED UTTERLY.

This poem, inserted on page 81, was disfigured by a misprint, the third line should have read:――

“And drapen in tear-colour’d minivers.”

The author (Dr. Todhunter) wishes it to be understood that the poem was intended as a skit on the imitators of Mr. Swinburne’s style in general, and not on any particular individual. It was therefore a little out of place amongst the Parodies of Mr. Oscar Wilde, as it was not intended to refer in any way to the writings of that gentleman.――ED. _Parodies._

――――:o:――――

PARODIES & POEMS
IN
PRAISE OF TOBACCO.

he following poems, devoted entirely to the laudation of Tobacco, either as smoked in the pipe, cigar, or cigarette, or as taken in the form of snuff, have been collected from many different works. One of the principal sources of information has been that entertaining journal _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_, which has now unfortunately ceased to exist. Another useful authority was a little book published at the office of _Tobacco_ in Gracechurch Street, London, entitled _Tobacco Jokes for Smoking Folks_, which contained many amusing anecdotes, and humorous illustrations. A few of the latter are here inserted by the kind permission of the proprietors. Following the Parodies some of the most noted _Poems_ on Tobacco are given, so as to make the collection on this interesting topic more complete.

One of the earliest burlesque poems in praise of Tobacco was that written by Mr. Isaac Hawkins Browne about one hundred and fifty years ago, entitled “_A Pipe of Tobacco_, in imitation of Six Several Authors.”

This poem has been repeatedly reprinted, although there is little in it that strikes a modern reader as either remarkably humorous or clever. The authors imitated are Colley Cibber (the Poet Laureate), Ambrose Phillips, James Thomson, Edward Young, Alexander Pope, and Jonathan Swift, Dean of St. Patrick’s. It is stated that the imitation of Ambrose Phillips was not written by Mr. I. H. Browne, but was sent to him by a friend, whose name has not been transmitted to us. This is to be regretted, as this particular imitation (the second) is generally considered the best in the collection. According to Ritson this was written for the collection by Dr. John Hoadley.

A PIPE OF TOBACCO:

_In Imitation of Six Several Authors._

IMITATION I.

_Laudes egregii Cæsaris――――
Culpâ deterere ingenî._
HOR.

A NEW-YEAR’S ODE.

_Recitative._

Old battle-array, big with horror is fled,
And olive-robed peace again lifts up her head.
Sing, ye Muses, Tobacco, the blessing of peace;
Was ever a nation so blessed as this?

_Air._

When summer suns grow red with heat,
Tobacco tempers Phœbus’ ire,
When wintry storms around us beat,
Tobacco cheers with gentle fire.
Yellow autumn, youthful spring,
In thy praises jointly sing.

_Recitativo._

Like Neptune, Cæsar guards Virginian fleets,
Fraught with Tobacco’s balmy sweets;
Old Ocean trembles at Britannia’s pow’r,
And Boreas is afraid to roar.

_Air._

Happy mortal! he who knows
Pleasure which a Pipe bestows;
Curling eddies climb the room,
Wafting round a mild perfume.

_Recitativo._

Let foreign climes the vine and orange boast,
While wastes of war deform the teeming coast;
Britannia, distant from each hostile sound,
Enjoys a Pipe, with ease and freedom crown’d;
E’en restless Faction finds itself most free,
Or if a slave, a slave to Liberty.

_Air._

Smiling years that gayly run,
Round the Zodiack with the sun,
Tell, if ever you have seen
Realms so quiet and serene.
Britain’s sons no longer now
Hurl the bar, or twang the bow,
Nor of crimson combat think,
But securely smoke and drink.

_Chorus._

Smiling years that gayly run
Round the Zodiack with the sun,
Tell, if ever you have seen
Realms so quiet and serene.

――――

IMITATION II.

_Tenues fugit ceu fumus in auras._
VIRG.

Little tube of mighty pow’r,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire:
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently brac’d;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper prest,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men;
Who when agen the night returns,
When agen the taper burns;
When agen the cricket’s gay,
(Little cricket, full of play)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men.

――――

IMITATION III.

_――――Prorumpit ad æthera nubem
Turbine fumantem piceo._
VIRG.

O thou, matur’d by glad Hesperian suns,
Tobacco, fountain pure of _limpid[16] truth_,
_That looks the very soul_; whence pouring thought
_Swarms all the mind_; absorpt is yellow care,
_And[17] at each puff imagination burns_.
Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires
Touch the mysterious lip, that chaunts thy praise
In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines
Of ductile clay, with _plastic[18] virtue_ form’d,
And glaz’d magnifick o’er, I grasp, I fill.
From _Pætotheke_[19] with pungent pow’rs perfum’d,
_Itself[20] one tortoise all, where shines imbib’d
Each parent ray_; then rudely ram’d illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet,
_Mark’d[21] with Gibsonian lore_; forth issue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires: I all the while,
Lolling at ease, _inhale_[22] the breezy balm.
But chief, when _Bacchus wont with thee to join
In genial strife_ and orthodoxal ale,
_Stream[23] life and joy into the Muses’ bowl_.
Oh be thou still _my great inspirer_, thou
_My Muse_; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle shrin’d,
Burst forth all oracle and mystick song.

――――

IMITATION IV.

_――――Bullatis mihi nugis,
Pagina turgescat, dare pondus idonea fumo._
PERS.

Criticks avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam.
And you, court-insects, flutter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere.
Pollio, with flame like thine, my verse inspire,
So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire.
Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff;
Yet all their claim to wisdom is――a puff:
Lord Fopling smokes not――for his teeth afraid:
Sir Tawdry smokes not――for he wears brocade.
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon;
They love no smoke, except the smoke of town;
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe,――no matter,
Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter!
Its foes but shew their ignorance; can he
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
The tainted templar (more prodigious yet)
Rails at Tobacco, tho’ it makes him――spit.
Citronia vows it has an odious stink;
She will not smoke (ye gods!) but she will drink:
And chaste Prudella (blame her if you can)
Says, pipes are us’d by that vile creature Man:
Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim,
While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame:
Fame, of our actions universal spring,
For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,――ev’rything.

――――

IMITATION V.

_――――Solis ad ortus
Vanescit fumus._
LUCAN.

Blest leaf! whose aromatick gales dispense
To templars modesty, to parsons sense:
So raptur’d priests, at fam’d Dodona’s shrine
Drank inspiration from the steam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords
Content, more solid than the smile of lords:
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the wise and good.
Inspir’d by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe’s peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy sister, beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critick owns thy genial aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling trade.
What tho’ to love and soft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taste thee unexcis’d by kings.

――――

IMITATION VI.

_Ex fumo dare lucem._
HOR.

Boy! bring an ounce of Freeman’s best,
And bid the vicar be my guest:
Let all be placed in manner due,
A pot wherein to spit or spue,
And _London Journal_ and _Free Briton_,
Of use to light a pipe――――
* * * * *
This village, unmolested yet
By troopers, shall be my retreat:
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write or vote for pay.
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o’er a pipe, whose vapour bland
In sweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all which at Vienna passes,
As ignorant as ―――― Brass is:
And scorning rascals to caress,
Extoll the days of good Queen Bess,
When first TOBACCO blest our isle,
Then think of other Queens――and smile.

Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry and song;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City Hall;
The parson’s pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o’er his ale.
I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain to compass Britain’s ruin:
Britons, if undone, can go,
Where TOBACCO loves to grow.

――――:o:――――

HORACE.
_In imitation of Epode III._

AN ODE AGAINST TOBACCO.

For parricide, that worst of crimes,
Hemlock’s cold draught, in ancient times,
Scarce taught the rogue repentance:
But had tobacco then been known,
Its burning juices swallow’d down,
Had prov’d a fitter sentence.

How callous are the lab’rers jaws,
Who this dire weed both smokes and chaws,
And feasts upon the venom!
While I by chance a taste once got,
That so inflam’d my mouth and throat,
I thought all hell was in ’em.

Sure, this vile drug, that serv’d me thus,
The deadly viper’s poisonous juice
Infus’d must have great share in;
Or else some hag, with midnight wish,
Procur’d it as a special dish
Of Satan’s own preparing.

This was the charm Medea taught
Her dear advent’rous Argonaut,
To steal the Golden Fleece with;
Down bulls and dragons gaping throat
A quid he threw, which, quick as thought,
The brutes were laid at peace with.

Ting’d in tobacco’s baleful oil,
Her presents made her rival broil
Past Jason’s art of quenching:
And when he swore revenge, the witch
Mounted aloft astride her switch,
Pleas’d she had spoil’d his wenching.

Under the blue I’d rather live,
And the sun’s fiercest rays receive,
How apt soe’er to burn us:
Nay, Hercules’s shirt I’d wear,
Or any flame much sooner bear,
Than a pipe’s fiery furnace.

My merry lord, if quid or whiff
You ever taste of this damn’d leaf,
May you meet with what you dread most,
May Chloe, when with her you lie,
And press to kiss her, put you by,
And rather hug the bed post!

From _The Gentleman’s Magazine_. May, 1744.

――――:o:――――

Elegy.
WRITTEN OVER AN OLD PIPE-BOX.

The postman hits his last rat-tat to day,
And hies him to his lowly home with glee;
My wife reposes in her white array;
The night is left to “’Bacca” and to me.

Now starts a glimmering bottle on the sight,
And all the air a spirit perfume holds;
At sight of me the cockroach takes to flight,
And leaves awhile my common dips and moulds.

All raving now, at yonder area gate,
The moping “bobbies” to the cooks complain
That soldiers, with their padded breasts elate,
Molest their ancient privilege and reign.

Beneath this hingeless lid, bound round with braid,
Wherein no anti-vermin dare to creep
(Each one done brown, aside for ever laid),
The ancient tutors of my smoking sleep.

The bull-like voice of nicotinian Bob,
The sylph-like tones of sweet, poetic, Ned,
The fierce denouncings of the anti-mob,
No more shall call them from their narrow bed.

For them no more the fierce fusee shall burn,
Or plugs be purchased and put in with care;
In memory only, I to them return;
Their smoke, too strong, would all my nerves impair.

Oft have they lain with me in some green field;
Their solace oft some stiff-neck’d care has broke.
How strangely sorrow to the pipe doth yield,
And joy descends e’en through ascending smoke.

Let not philosophy at smoking mock――
Philosophy is but its prototype;
Nor e’en religion hear with spurning shock,
The short and simple annals of the pipe.

* * * * *

Ah me! In this neglected box is laid
Old pipes, once glowing with the scented fire;
Pipes for which shillings, ay, and pounds were paid.
Start not――’tis true, or I’m a living liar!

But pipes on pipes of “Bacca,” day by day,
With poison laden, did their fates control;
Strong-smelling oil stopp’d up the narrow way,
And now they may no more console my soul.

Full many a pipe, of purest briar root,
The stern schoolmaster confiscates and breaks;
Full many a clay, too, seized is by the brute,
And flung with tops and marbles, buttons, cakes.

One colour’d meerschaum that, in hidden poke
Conceal’d, full many a day in school did lie,
Escaped the notice of the stern-eyed bloke,
To linger in this box and never die.

To take excursion by the iron way,
In smoking-carriage, where thick clouds arise;
To fumigate――(tho’ anti-smokers bray),
And blow their ashes into people’s eyes――

Their state forbids. Now, circumscribed they lie,
For pleasure useless, and for work as well;
Weak, helpless, all, I bid them now good-by;
For, tho’ so weak, dear me, how strong they smell!

For thee, who, brooding thus with bended head,
Deploring much their sad and helpless state,
If chance, by nicotinian feelings led,
Some brother smoker shall inquire thy fate:

Haply some wooden-headed clown may say:
“I’ve often seed him, when the ale-house closed,
Wandering along the all-too narrow way,
His eyes a quiver, like to one who dozed;

“There, at the foot of yonder painted sign,
That looks more like a pig than like a cow,
He’d drink his beer――it would’nt run to wine――
And smoke his pipe, all reckless――anyhow.

“Or down the street, to put his watch in pawn,
Feeling for vanish’d coppers, he would rove,
His old hat on, his bristly chin unshorn.
He liked his beer, but warn’t a drunken cove.

“One night I miss’d him at the accustom’d pub;
Unoccupied remain’d his favourite seat.
Another came. Where was he?――sore the rub;
In losing him, we lost a look’d-for treat.

“The next, with solemn march, in blue array
(A crowd behind with strong tumultuous din,)
Two bobbies came. They’d found him on the way,
With beer o’ercome, and so they ran him in!”

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests, with his old head upon a stone,
A man who smoked till he did reason drown.
To-morrow morn the mayor, all fully blown,
Will frown on him, and fine him half-a-crown.

H. L.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. September, 1874.

――――

HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY ON TOBACCO.

To smoke or not to smoke, that is the question:
Whether a mild cigar assists digestion;
Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness,
Which some would say was nothing but a faintness;
To smoke――to drink and then to go to bed;
To find a pillow for an aching head;
To snore――perchance to dream! and half your senses scare
With visionary demons or nightmare;
To wake, in perspiration nicely dished,
’Tis a consummation hardly to be wished;
For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse
Of this base world, when he might cook his goose
Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care
For half the motley groups which at him stare,
Some morning early, stuck before the bench,
When soda-water would his fever quench,
But that a little thing within doth call?
Thus porter doth make rumuns of us all!
And thus our resolution to keep sober
Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October.
But hush! my Phelia comes, the pretty dear!
Oh! think of me love――when you fetch your beer.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

TO SMOKE, OR NOT TO SMOKE.

To smoke, or not to smoke――that is the question!
Whether ’tis better to abjure the habit,
And trust the warnings of a scribbling doctor,
Or buy at once a box of best Havanas,
And ten a day consume them? To smoke, to puff,
Nay more, to waste the tender fabric of the lungs
And risk consumption and its thousand ills
The practice leads to――’tis a consummation
Discreetly to be shunned. To smoke, to puff――
To puff, perhaps to doze――ay, there’s the rub;
For in that dozing state we thirsty grow,
And, having burned the tube up to a stump,
We must have drink, and that’s one cause
We modern youth are destined to short life;
For who can bear to feel his mouth parched up,
His throat like whalebone and his chest exhausted,
His head turned giddy, and his nerves unstrung,
When he himself might drench these ills away
With wine or brandy? Who could live in smoke,
And pine and sicken with a secret poison;
But that the dread of breaking o’er a rule
Prescribed by Fashion, whose controlling will
None disobey, puzzles ambitious youth,
And makes us rather bear the ills we feel
Than others that the doctor warns us of.
Thus custom does make spectres of us all,
And thus the native hue of our complexion
If sicklied o’er with a consumptive cast;
The appetite, a loss of greater moment,
Palled by the weed, and the digestive powers
Lose all their action.

JOHN W. FARRELL.

_Rare Bits._ November 18, 1882.

――――:o:――――

A SONG, AFTER SHERIDAN.

Here’s to the hookah with snake of five feet,
Or the “portable” fix’d to one’s “topper”;
Here’s to the meerschaum more naughty than neat,
And here’s to all pipes that are proper.
Fill them up tight,
Give ’em a light;
I’ll wager a smoke will set everything right.

Here’s to the Warden’s twelve inches of stalk,
Here’s to Jack Tar’s clay, with one, sir;
To the pipes now with mountings so rich that they “walk,”
And here’s to most pipes which have none, sir.
Fill them up tight, &c.

Here’s to the Milo just out of the shop,
With mouthpiece as dry as pale sherry;
Here’s to your veteran, wet as a mop,
Black as a sloe or a cherry.
Fill them up tight, &c.

Let them be clumsy or let them be slim,
Light or heavy, I care not a feather;
So, fill them with ’Baccy right up to the rim,
And let us all smoke them together.
Fill them up tight,
Give ’em a light;
I’ll wager a smoke will set everything right.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. February, 1875.

――――:o:――――

HAIL TO THE PLANT.
(_A Parody of Sir Walter Scott._)

Hail! to the Plant which we owe to brave Raleigh,
Long may it flourish on Cuba’s lone shore,
Bloom on the mountain, and spread in the valley,
Fertile, and fragrant, and fresh evermore!
Bright sunshine, nourish it,
Gentle deeds, cherish it,
Life giving breezes, around it still flow;
Moisture and warmth, give aid,
That it may never fade;
Tabak, St. Nicotine, ho, ieroe!

* * * * *

Smoke, brother, smoke of the pride of Virginia;
Snuff, brother, snuff, if you’d clear up your brain;
Chew, brother, chew, and I’ll bet you a guinea,
Once fairly started, you’ll do it again.
Oh, would our northern air
Nurture this plant so rare!
Never aught else in my garden I’d grow:
All my flowers pluck’d should be,
Fruit-trees give place to thee,
Tabak, St. Nicotine, ho, ieroe!

――――

THE LAY OF THE LAST SMOKER.

The weed was rank, the pipe was old,
Along the road the smoker rolled;
His scared and hesitating way
Showed that he owed and couldn’t pay.
The pipe, his one remaining joy,
Was scoff of every man and boy;
For last of all the smokers, he,
This old man was well known to be
For ’Bacca’s day was lately fled,
And all his brother smokers dead;
And he but stayed to smoke and swear,
And wonder where the others were.
No more amid the jest and song,
He puffed at his churchwarden long;
No longer in a smoking car
He blew a cloud from his cigar,
And stood his ground both stern and stout,
To smoke the anti-puffers out.
Old days were drowned in Time’s dark stream,
And “antis” reigned now all supreme;
The quivering noses of the time
Now called each harmless puff a crime.
A wandering smoker, scorned and sad,
He nearly drove the city mad;
And had to smoke――oh! wretched elf!
Some ’Bacca that he grew himself.
* * * * *

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. April, 1876.

――――:o:――――

THE LAST CIGAR.
(_After Thomas Moore._)

’Tis a last choice Havana
I hold here alone;
All its fragrant companions
In perfume have flown.
No more of its kindred
To gladden the eye,
So my empty cigar case
I close with a sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine; but the stem
I’ll bite off and light thee
To waft thee to them
And gently I’ll scatter
The ashes you shed,
As your soul joins its mates in
A cloud overhead.

All pleasure is fleeting,
It blooms to decay
From the weeds glowing circle,
The ash drops away.
A last whiff is taken,
The butt-end is thrown,
And with empty cigar case
I sit all alone.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s
Left lying alone;
All his dark brown Regalias
Are vanished and gone.
No cigar of its colour,
No “Lopez” is mine,
To delight with its perfume
And fragrance divine.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
I’ll ring for a light;
Thy companions are ashes,
I’ll smoke thee to-night.
Thy halo and incense
Shall rise o’er my head,
As I sigh for the beauties
All scentless and dead.

And soon may I follow
Those lov’d ones’ decay;
Since from each tempting bundle
They’ve faded away.
When Regalias are smok’d out,
And “Lopez” are blown,
Oh! who would still linger,
Cigarless, alone?

From _Hints to Freshmen, in the University of Oxford_.

――――

A LAST CIGAR.

’Tis my last mild Havana
Pervading the room;
Her companions have taken
Their _leaves_ in a fume.
No kindred _to back her_,
Nor plug, twist, nor snuff,
To return her aroma
Or give puff for puff.

Oh, fain would I follow
When the last whiff is sped,
And in life’s brightest garden
The _weeds_ are all dead.
When troubles oppress us,
Or better-halves jar,
Oh, what were existence
Without a cigar?

――――:o:――――

THE BUTCHER BOY.

The butcher boy down the road has gone,
With beefsteak he has lined him;
A pipe of clay he has put on,
And his basket’s slung behind him.
“Lend me that,” cried the baker’s boy,
“The pipe you now are biting,”
“Not I,” cried he, “my pipe I’ll guard!”
And so they fell to fighting.

The butcher fell, but the baker’s boy,
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The pipe he loved ne’er smoked again,
For he broke its stem asunder;
And cried, “No dough shall sully thee,
I’ll be thy undertaker;
Thy joys were made for the butcher boy――
Thou shalt ne’er be smoked by a baker!”

H. L.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. July. 1873.

――――

MY OLD DHUDEEN.
(Air: _Love’s Young Dream_.)

Oh! the days are gone when lollipops
My heart could move;
When sugar-sticks and almond rock
Were my first love;
Inventions sweet
And succulent,
Made childhood all serene;
Now there’s nothing half so sweet in life
As my old Dhudeen;
Yes, there’s nothing half so sweet in life
As my old Dhudeen.

For the youth will tire at last of sweets
When “down” appears,
And he wears a collar in the streets
That hides his ears:
The vile “Pickwick”
May make him sick,
And turn his face quite green,
Yet there’s nothing half so sweet in life
As his old Dhudeen;
Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life
As his old Dhudeen.

Oh! the first sly smoke I’ll ne’er forget――
It made me queer;
And when I my stern parent met,
He pulled my ear;
But now I’m old,
And weak and cold,
And on my stick do lean,
There’s nothing half so sweet in life
As my old Dhudeen;
Oh! there’s nothing half so sweet in life
As my old Dhudeen.

H. L.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. December, 1872.

――――:o:――――

I REMEMBER.
(_After Hood._)

I remember, I remember,
The pipe that first I drew;
With red waxed end and snowy bowl,
It perfect was and new.
It measured just four inches long,
’Twas made of porous clay;
I found when I began to smoke,
It took my breath away,

I remember, I remember,
In fear I struck a light;
And when I smoked a little time,
I felt my cheeks grow white.
My nervous system mutinied,
My diaphragm uprose,
And I was very――very ill
In a way you may suppose.

I remember, I remember,
The very rod he got,
When father who discovered me,
Made me exceeding hot.
He scattered all my feathers then,
While, face down I reclined;
I sat upon a cold hearthstone,
I was so warm behind.

I remember, I remember,
I viewed the rod with dread,
And silent, sad, and supperless,
I bundled off to bed.
It was a childish punishment,
And now ’tis little joy
To know that, for the self-same crime,
I wallop my own boy!

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. March, 1875.

――――:o:――――

THE OLD BLACK CLAY.

I love it! I love it! though some may say
It’s wrong to be fond of an old black clay;
I haven’t exactly inlaid it with sighs――
The turn of my mind has been otherwise――
For I always feel excessively gay
When I’m gazing upon that old black clay.

When rude and frivolous folk are by,
I never produce it――I’ll tell you why――
They call it harsh, injurious names,
And vex my soul with mischievous games;
But when to a lonely place I repair,
I make quite sure there’s nobody there,
And adore in the most abandoned way
That stumpy loveable coal-black clay.

I’ll never forget the dreadful day
When they “played it low” on that harmless clay――
The ruthless hand of a mother dear
Hid it away in a dust-hole drear;
But, ah! no words can properly tell
My joy when I found it again by the smell;
And I took to my heart (as one may say),
Once more that redolent, long lost clay.

I love it! I love it! as I have said,
I smoke it abroad, and I smoke it abed;
And if the prophecy turn out right
That I’m burned to a cinder some fine night,
I’ll simply deem it a glorious way
Of ending my life with my faithful clay.

_The Manchester City Jackdaw._ April 21, 1876.

――――:o:――――

SMOKE NOT!

Smoke not, smoke not your weeds nor pipes of clay!
Cigars that are made from leaves of cauliflowers;――
Things that are doomed no duty e’er to pay;――
Grown, made, and smokèd in a few short hours.
Smoke not, smoke not.

Smoke not, smoke not! the weed you smoke may change
The healthfulness of your stomachic tone;
Things to the eye grow queer and passing strange;
All thought seems undefined――save one, to be alone.
Smoke not, smoke not.

Smoke not! the tradesman whose weed you smoke may die!
May perish from the cabbage-bearing earth;――
The sordid _dun_ into your chamber hie――
Sent by the trustees in their tinless dearth.
Smoke not, smoke not.

Smoke not, smoke not! O, warning vainly said!
Cane and cap-paper since we first did try,
Smoke flings a halo round the smoker’s head;
And all in vain do anxious mothers cry,
Smoke not, smoke not!

From _Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford_, published by J. Vincent, Oxford, and attributed to the Rev. Canon Hole.

――――:o:――――

THE PIPES OF ENGLAND.

The stately pipes of England,
How beautiful they be,
With amber tips and meerschaum bowls――
Such pipes are not for me!
With scented Latakie they burn,
And golden crowns they wear;
And the smoke steals from the scented urn――
Like summer’s perfumed air.

The merry pipes of England,
Amid the joke and jest,
With gladsome glasses of hot grog,
Are found then at their best,
The smoker’s eye is seen to wink,
As many a tale is told;
Or lips ope cheerfully to drink
The glorious ale of old.

The cottage pipes of England――
By thousands made of clay――
All snowy in their wooden box,
How beautiful are they!
From ruddy lips they outward poke,
As white as wool or lard;
And the lowly do a cheerful smoke,
When the times are not too hard.

The free, fair pipes of England
Live long in hall and hut;
And sweet for ever be their lips,
And scented be their bowls;
And may no humbug e’er eclipse
The solace of our souls.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. April 1873.

――――:o:――――

THE GENIUS OF SMOKING.

[_We have been favored with the following defence of smoking, by an intimate literary friend of Lord Byron, who assures us it is selected from several unpublished juvenile trifles written at various times in his album by the noble bard._]

I had a dream――it was not all a dream;
Methought I sat beneath the silver beam
Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there,
And everything around was free and fair;
And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke,
Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke,
In sweetest union to young Fancy’s car,
And waft the soul out thro’ a good cigar.
There as we sat and puffed the hours away,
And talked and laughed about life’s little day,
And built our golden castles in the air,
And sighed to think what transient things they were,
As the light smoke around our heads was thrown,
Amidst its folds a little figure shone,
An elfin sprite, who held within her hand
A small cigar her sceptre of command.
Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off,
Like a cigar’s end, which you must bite off;
Her eyes were red and twinkling like the light
Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerschaum, by night;
A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced,
And dried tobacco hung about her waist;
Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing
Of an old smoker, after he’s been stuffing.
Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke,
To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,――
“Hail faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend
On him who joins the smoker to the friend,
Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish
Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish;
Puff forth your clouds”――(with that we puff’d amain)
“Sweet is their fragrance”――(then we puff’d again)
“How have I hung, with most intense delight,
Over your heads when you have smoked at night,
And gratefully imparted all my powers
To bless and consecrate those happy hours;
Smoke on,” she said. I started and awoke,
And with my dream she vanished into smoke.

ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

AN AMERICAN PARODY OF WORDSWORTH’S “SONNET ON THE SONNET.”

Scorn not the meerschaum. Housewives, you have croaked
In ignorance of its charms. Through this small reed
Did Milton, now and then, consume the weed;
The poet Tennyson hath oft evoked
The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked
And wrote and sang in nicotinian mood;
Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude;
A thousand times this pipe hath Lowell smoked;
Full oft hath Aldrich, Stoddard, Taylor, Cranch,
And many more whose verses float about,
Puffed the Virginian or Havanna leaf;
And when the poet’s or the artist’s branch,
Drops no sustaining fruit, how sweet to pout
Consolatory whiffs――alas, too brief!

――――:o:――――

MY HOOKAH.

What is it, that affords such joys
On Indian shores, and never cloys,
But makes that _pretty, bubbling_ noise?
My Hookah.

What is it, that a party if in
At breakfast, dinner, or at Tiffin,
Surprises and delights the Griffin?
My Hookah.

What is it to Cadets gives pleasure?
What is it occupies their leisure?
What do they deem the greatest treasure?
My Hookah.

Say――what makes Decency wear sable?
What makes each would-be nabob able
To cock his legs upon the table?
My Hookah.

What is it (trust me, I’m not joking,
Tis truth――altho’, I own, provoking)
That sets e’en Indian _belles_ a smoking?
My Hookah.

What is it――whensoe’er we search
In ev’ry place;――_except the Church_,
That leaves sweet converse in the lurch?
My Hookah.

But hold my Muse――for shame for shame――
One question ere you smoking blame――
_What is it gives your book a name?_
My Hookah.

My fault I own――my censure ends;
Nay more――I’ll try to make amends,
Who is the _safest_ of all friends?
My Hookah.

Say who? or what retains the power,
When fickle Fortune ’gins to lour,
To solace many a lonely hour?
My Hookah.

When death-like dews and fogs prevailing
In Pinnace or in Budg’-row sailing,
What is it that prevents our ailing?
My Hookah.

When we’re our skins with claret soaking,
And heedless wits their friends are joking,
_Which_ friend will stand the _greatest smoking_?
My Hookah.

By what――(nay, answer at your ease,
While pocketing our six rupees)――
By what d’ye mean the town to please?
My Hookah.

From MY HOOKAH; or, _The Stranger in Calcutta_. Being a collection of Poems by an Officer. Calcutta: Greenway and Co., 1812.

――――

A PINCH OF SNUFF.

With mind or body sore distrest,
Or with repeated cares opprest,
What sets the aching heart at rest?
A pinch of snuff!

Or should some sharp and gnawing pain
Creep round the noddle of the brain,
What puts all things to rights again?
A pinch of snuff!

When speech and tongue together fail,
What helps old ladies in their tale,
And adds fresh canvass to their sail?
A pinch of snuff!

Or when some drowsy parson prays,
Or still more drowsy people gaze,
What opes their eyelids with amaze?
A pinch of snuff!

A comfort which they can’t forsake,
What is it some would rather take,
Than good roast beef, or rich plum cake?
A pinch of snuff!

What warms without a conflagration,
Excites without intoxication,
And rouses without irritation?
A pinch of snuff!

Then let us sing in praise of snuff!
And call it not such “horrid stuff,”
At which some frown, and others puff,
And seem to flinch

But when a friend presents a box,
Avoid the scruples and the shocks
Of him who laughs and her who mocks,
And take a pinch!

From _The Sportsman_. August, 1835.

――――

STANZAS TO A LADY
_In defence of Smoking._

What taught me first sweet peace to blend
With hopes and fears that knew no end,
My dearest, truest, fondest friend?
My pipe, love!

What cheer’d me in my boyhood’s hour,
When first I felt Love’s witching power,
To bear deceit,――false woman’s dow’r
My pipe, love!

What still upheld me since the guile,
Attendant on false friendship’s smile,
And I in hope, deceiv’d the while?
My pipe, love!

What cheer’d me when misfortunes came,
And all had flown me? Still the same
My only true and constant flame,
My pipe, love!

What sooth’d me in a foreign land,
And charm’d me with its influence bland,
Still whisp’ring comfort, hand in hand?
My pipe, love!

What charm’d me in the thoughts of past
When mem’ry’s gleam my eyes o’ercast,
And burns to serve me to the last?
My pipe, love!

_Nicotiana_, by H. J. Meller. London. E. Wilson, 1832.

――――

TO MY CIGAR.

When cares oppress the drooping mind,
And fickle friends are most unkind,
Who constant still remains behind?
My true cigar!

Oh! where’s the friend who’d cheerfully,
To soothe one pensive hour for me,
Resign his latest breath like thee――
My kind cigar?

Thy spirit’s gone, poor fragile thing!
But still thine ashes, mouldering,
To me a valued lesson bring,――
My pale cigar!

Like man’s, how soon thy vital spark,
Expiring, leaves no other mark,
But mouldering ashes, drear and dark,
My dead cigar.

T. G. J.

Bristol. 1844.

――――

TOBACCO.

Whene’r I’m out of sorts or sad,
Oppress’d with care, and well-nigh mad,
What comforts me, and makes me glad?
Tobacco!

What builds such castles in the air,
And paints my prospects bright and fair,
And makes me negligent of care?
Tobacco!

How is it that I’m so resign’d,
When’er my wife _must_ speak her mind,
And ne’er retaliate in kind?
Tobacco!

What makes my holidays so sweet,
And ev’ry “outing” such a treat
That I would fain their joys repeat?
Tobacco!

Whene’er my brain is dull and dark,
And utterly beside the mark,
What wakes the latent, slumb’ring spark?
Tobacco!

What changes all my scowls to smiles,
And many a tedious hour beguiles,
And ne’er by any chance me riles,
Tobacco.

Enlarger of our mortal ken,
_Familiar_ of the artist’s den,
Beloved by literary men――
Tobacco!

Far kinder than the kindest friend,
O, teach us how your powers blend!
And from your heavenly throne descend,
Tobacco!

E. H. S.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. April, 1873.

――――

THE WEED.

When roses droop beside the wall,
When lily petals fade and fall,
What swiftly rises, covering all?
The Weed.

When starts the widow on the chase,
To fill “the late lamented’s” place,
What decorates her pretty face?
The Weed.

When coffee’s served and wine runs low,
When conversation waxes slow,
What brings the after-dinner glow?
The Weed.

――――

A SMOKE.

What comforts me when I am sad,
Or when I’ve got the toothache _bad_,
Or when the money market’s mad?
A smoke.

What soothes me if I dine not well,
When lies about me people tell,
Or friendship proves a hollow sell?
A smoke.

What quiets indigestion’s pangs,
And takes the edge off hatred’s fangs,
And salves misfortune’s cruel bangs?
A smoke.

――――:o:――――

HYMN TO SAINT NICOTINE.
(_Imitation of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes._)

Strange! that this gently breathèd cloud
So far, far sweeter unto me,
Than all that this green earth enshroud,
Or float above the sea.
My meerschaum, when thy mouth I greet,
No lady’s lips seem half so sweet.

I look upon the fair blue skies,
And naught but empty air I see;
But when thy circling cloudlets rise,
It seemeth unto me
Ten thousand angels spread their wings,
Within those little azure rings.

Tobacco hath the choicest leaf
That ever western breeze hath fanned;
Its healing odour gives relief
To men of ev’ry land.
This precious herb to me doth yield
More joy than all the broider’d field.

O, comrade! there be many things
That seem right fair in truth or joke;
But sure from none among them springs
A richer charm than smoke.
Let us not puff our pipes alone,
But join two altars both in one.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. December, 1871.

――――:o:――――

PARODY OF DR. WATTS, BY AN ANTI-SMOKER.

How doth the nasty, dirty man,
Go smoking every hour;
And spend his money wastefully
On Old Nick’s favourite flower.

How wistfully he seeks his pipe,
How glad he doth it light;
And smokes the foul thing all the day,
And feels quite ill at night.

In shag, bird’s eye, or honey-dew,
His mind is ever fast;
And Satan knows to him he’s due,
For he’ll get him at last.

ANONYMOUS.

――――

THE LAST PIPE.

T’was the voice of the doctor, I heard him declare,
“You’ve been smoking too much, of tobacco beware!
To be candid and plain you’ll find it no joke,
For you’ll become _ashes_ yourself if you smoke.”

So I’ve filled my last pipe as I sit by the fire,
And gaze at the cloud rising higher and higher,
And languidly watching each up-curling ring,
A mournful adieu to tobacco I sing.

Farewell, good cigars, I will e’en call you dear,
Yet your price were no object so you were still here.
Good bye! Latakia, Mild Turkey, good by!
Virginia, Cavendish, Bristol Bird’s-eye,

And my pipe! My sweet pipe, with thy cool amber tip!
No more shall that amber caress my fond lip.
Oh! friend of my youth! must thou really go――
My partner in joy, and my solace in woe?

’Tis too true; nought avail me these heart-broken sighs!
And, alas! thou art out. There are tears in my eyes,
As I lay thee down gently. I will not complain,
But I feel I shall never be happy again.

_Fun_, 1870.

――――:o:――――

THE PIPE.
A Parody of Barry Cornwall’s “_The Sea, the Sea!_”

The pipe, the pipe, the German pipe!
The short, the long, the meerschaum ripe!
Its odorous puffs without a sound,
They float my head’s wide regions round;
They rise in clouds and mock the skies,
While _Baccy_ snugly eradled lies.
My hookah wide! my hookah deep!
I’ve that which I would ever keep;
With the smoke above, and smoke below,
And smoke wheresoe’er I go.
If a storm (like a Chinese gong) should ring
What matters that? I’ll smoke and sing.
What matters, &c.

I love――oh! how I love to smoke,
And drink full bumpers of th’ foaming soak!
And when its waves have drowned my soul,
I’ll whistle aloud such a “Tol-de-rol!”
Don’t ask me where the world is going,
Nor why the sou’-west _blast_ is blowing.
I never breathed the dull tame air,
But I relish my great pipe mair and mair,
And back again flew for a soothing puff,
Like a bird――I’m sure that’s quick enough.
My _mother_ it is, and I’ll prove it to ye,
(Much more of a mother than the open sea!)
For _smoking_, I’m at it ever and ever!
I hope your comment on this line is “clever!”
For fear of growing at all lackadaisical
I hasten to lay down my pen _parody_-sical;
In truth these stanzas concluding with somewhat
’Bout “birth” and “death,” which things I can’t come
I’ve only one word, and that’s to crave pardon,
These sweet pretty verses that I’ve been so hard on.

From _The Individual_. Cambridge, January 31, 1837.

――――:o:――――

A DREAM (ANTI-CIPATED).
(_After Kingsley._)

Three Antis[24] went groaning out into the east――
Out into the east, as the sun arose;
Each thought on the newspaper he loved the least;
The _Tobacco Plant_ followed, and chaff’d at their woes.
But antis will croak, and smokers will smoke,
Tho’ chaff it be sudden, and endless the joke
That the antis afford with their moaning.

The _Plant_ having stopped in a garden bower,
Lit up his sweet pipe, as the sun arose;
And he heard those three antis bawl out by the hour
The weakest of humbug, in seedy old clothes.
But antis will croak, and the _Plant_ have his joke,
And chaff, if ignited, must all end in smoke,
And the antis must soon end their moaning.

Three antis lay drunk on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam, as the sun arose;
And smokers are laughing and rubbing their hands,
To know they’re already relieved of their foes.
For _Observers_ will talk, and the _Plant_ doesn’t sleep;
Though tough be the job, ’tis amusing to keep
All the anti-Tobaccoites moaning.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. January, 1875.

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 grey;
Sweet, when they’ve clear’d 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 neighbours;
Jones――(who, I’m glad to say,
Asked leave of Mrs. J――)
Daily absorbs a clay
After his labours.

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. CALVERLEY.

――――

DETAINED.

Hand me another spill――
Phœbe, my glass refill,
As I’ve some time to kill.
What do you mention?
Boat, gun, and tackle nigh,
Horse and trap ready?――I
Think I can manage my
Task of detention.

Rowing? I’ve had a bout!
Raining? Then can’t go out!
Capital stream for trout?
Not very handy!
No, I’ll just pen a lay;
Clear all these things away;
Landlord! another clay
Soda and brandy

Anti-Tobaccoite!
I have no wish to fight;
But if you douse my light,
Mind, we shall wrangle.
Why should you interfere,
With your new-fangled gear,
And try _my_ course to steer
At such an angle?

No! I must have my light;
Whether I read or write,
Smoking, by day or night,
Aids the reflection.
Some may prefer Bohea;
Excellent though it be,
_I_ think Tobacco the
Pink of Perfection!

Shag’s my divinity,
Pure as virginity;
In its vicinity
Come not, you croakers!
What, though the _Antis_ choke?
Still I must have my smoke;
Pshaw! let the beggars _croak_!
Here’s to the smokers!

E. H. S.

――――:o:――――

BEWARE!

I know a meerschaum fair to see,
Take care!
It whispers “Smoke and colour me,”
Beware! beware!
Smoke it not,
’Tis fooling thee!

It cost two guineas, golden brown,
Take care!
You’d better smash it; drop it down;
Beware! beware!
Smoke it not;
’Tis fooling thee.

A mouthpiece of a golden hue,
Take care!
’Twill very likely make you――vomit,
Beware! beware!
Smoke it not!
’Tis fooling thee.

It hath a bowl as white as snow,
Take care!
Smoke it black, to Old Nick you’ll go;
Beware! beware!
Smoke it not;
’Tis fooling thee.

P. C.

――――

TOBACCO SMOKE!

The clouds of smoke were rising fast,
As through a college room there passed
A youth, who bore, ’spite sage advice,
A “baccy”-pouch, with strange device,
“Tobacco smoke!”

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Glared on a pipe, laid in its sheath,
And in his ears there ever rung
The accents of the donor’s tongue,
Tobacco smoke!

In ground-floor rooms he saw the light,
Of pipes and weeds glow strong and bright;
And, heedless of the passing don,
From out his lips escaped a groan,
Tobacco smoke!

“Try not the shag,” the old man said,
“It is o’er strong for thy young head,
Dire its effects to those untried;”
Heedless he was, and but replied,
Tobacco smoke!

“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and test
Our Latakia――’tis the best!”
He grasped his packet of birds’-eye,
And only muttered with a sigh,
Tobacco smoke!

“Beware; don’t set your room alight――
The college might object――good night!”
Such were the words the scholar spoke,
And scarcely heard through closing oak,
Tobacco smoke!

At midnight hour, as bedroom-ward
Two “undergrads” from drinking hard,
Steered up the gas-less break-neck stair,
A voice cried from the “right two-pair,”
Tobacco smoke!

The Freshman by his scout was found,
Lying all prone upon the ground,
And still his hand grasped like a vice
The “baccy”-pouch with strange device,
Tobacco smoke!

There, in the morning cold and gray,
Moaning, and all unkempt, he lay,
And then the scout, unmoved, serene――
Said――“Oh! ’tis easy to be seen,
Tobacco smoke!”

R. C.

From _College Rhymes_. Part XVI., 1864.

――――

_The Song of Firewater_, a parody of Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha,” appeared in _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_ for November, 1871. The poem relates to snuff, but as it extends to over 200 lines it cannot be inserted here. It commences thus:――

Should you ask me whence this story?
Whence this legend and tradition?
I should answer, I should tell you,
From the lips of Blow-me-tite-o;
Blow-me-tite-o, sweetest singer,
Singer of the mournful ditties.
* * * * *
――――

THE SONG OF NICOTINE.

Should you ask me why this meerschaum,
Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens,
With the odours of tobacco,
With the oil and fume of “mixture,”
With the curling smoke of “bird’s eye,”
With the gurgling of rank juices,
With renewed expectorations
As of sickness on the fore-deck?
I should answer, I should tell you,
From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps,
From the old leeks of the Welshland,
From the soil of kitchen gardens,
From the mud of London sewers,
From the garden-plots and churchyards,
Where the linnet and cock-sparrow
Feed upon the weeds and groundsel,
I receive them as I buy them
From the boxes of Havana,
The concoctor, the weird wizard.
Should you ask how this Havana
Made cigars so strong and soothing,
Made the “bird’s eye,” and “York-river,”
I should answer, I should tell you,
In the purlieus of the cities,
In the cellars of the warehouse,
In the dampness of the dungeon,
Lie the rotten weeds that serve him;
In the gutters and the sewers,
In the melancholy alleys,
Half-clad Arab boys collect them,
Crossing-sweepers bring them to him,
Costermongers keep them for him,
And he turns them by his magic
Into “cavendish” and “bird’s-eye,”
For those clay-pipes and churchwardens,
For this meerschaum, or he folds them,
And “cigars” he duly labels
On the box in which he sells them.

From _Figaro_. October 7, 1874.

――――

LINES TO THE “ANTI-TOBACCO JOURNAL.”

Tell me not in penny numbers
Smoking’s but a loathsome dream;
Worse than onions and cucumbers,
Though they be chawed up like steam!

Smoke is sweetness, done in earnest,
Power possessing to console,
If ’tis healthy weed thou burnest
In the clay or meerschaum bowl.

Not to aid expectoration
Doth the smoker burn the weed,
But to woo sweet meditation,
And also digest his “feed.”

“Shag” is strong, “Returns” is milder,
“Cavendish” but suits the brave;
Though our pulses beat the wilder,
Still for ’bacca do we crave.

In this world so full of brawling,
If in years your manhood’s ripe,
Heed ye not the antis’ calling――
Be a man and smoke a pipe.

Pipes of great men all remind us
(Tho’ of clay the bowl and stem),
Wheresoever fate may find us,
We can colour pipes like them.

Dhudeens, that perhaps another
On the wheel of fortune broke,
Some forlorn and bankrupt brother,
Seeing, may take heart, and smoke.