xt7tdz02zs6k https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7tdz02zs6k/data/mets.xml  189  books b98-54-42679916 English Allen & Ginter, : Richmond, Va. : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Tobacco Poetry. With the poets in smokeland . text With the poets in smokeland . 189 2002 true xt7tdz02zs6k section xt7tdz02zs6k 












































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           INTRODUCTORY.





I N all climes and among all races of men the language
    of Tobacco is the same. It is the universal symbol
of peace, of good feeling, of meditation. The American
Indian ratified his treaties with the pipe; a pinch of snuff,
with a Kaffir, makes you his guest, and he is bound
to protect you by all the laws of savage hospitality.
Among more civilized nations tobacco smoke scents the
weightiest documents of the statesman, it pervades with
its subtle odor the clergyman's sermon and the lawyer's
brief; its perfume clings to the manuscript of the novel-
ist and in its blue wreaths are twined the most graceful
fancies of the poet. It is universal, whether it be in the
pipe of the student or the cigarette of the man of leisure;
fully nine-tenths of the human race, in some form, burn
incense to the gracious Goddess Nicotiana.
  Byron penned one of his noblest sonnets to ' Divine
Tobacco," and our own Dr. Oliver Wendell Hlolmes only
recently testified his regard for " Tobacco, a soothing
drug, which in its various forms is a great solace to many
old men and to some old women- Carlyle and his mother
used to smoke their pipes together, you remember."
  It is with a view of collecting in a permanent form
some of the most notable of these tributes, that this little
book is issued. It does not contain a tithe of the mate-
rial at hand; to accomplish that would require a volume
bulkier than the dictionary. A few of the curious verses
of the Elizabethan age and some of the daintier produc-
tions of our own time have been all that space would
admit. As an accompaniment to a soothing and medita-
tive pipe, or a delicate and fragrant cigarette, they may
not come amiss to
      THE GREAT BROTHERHOOD OF SMOKERS
to whom this little volume is fraternally dedicated.
            I_                    - -AILI.AN FURMAN.

 




               HAIL TO THE PLANT.

               (A PARODY ON SIR WALTER SCOTT.)



            ail! to the plant which we owe to brave Raleigh,
              Long may it flourish ofl Virginia's fair 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, iero!

            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 plucked should be
                     Fruit trees give place to thee
                   Tabak, St. Nicotine, ho. iero'




                WITH PIPE AND BOOK.

                               With pipe and book at close of day,
                               0! wvhat is sweeter, mortal say
                               It matters not what book on knee
                               Old lzaak or the Odyssey,
                               It matters not, meerschaum or clay.
                               -And though our eyes will dream astray,
                               And lips forget to sue or sway,
                               It is "enough to merely be"
                                  With pipe and book.

                                What though our modern skies be grey,
                                As bards aver I will not pray
                                "or - soothing death " to " succour' Il"  ;
                                But ask this much, 0! Fate, of thee,
                                A little longer yet to stay
                                    With pipe and book.
                                             By RICHARDI LE (ALLIINNF.
                              /'rOMI Job,1nes in I'olio.





   The Spaniards have a proverb to this effect, "A cigarette, a glass of fre ,i
water, and the kiss of a pretty girl will sustain a man for a day without eating.


                                           Learn to smoke slow, the other grace is,
                                           To keep your smoke from people's faces.
                                                                          -Punch.

 















y Cigarette ! The amulet
iThat 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 dream
Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending.

                         My Cigarette ! Can I forget
      ,G      u     s     lHow 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 paper's 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 might earn
                                Upon her lips so sweet a pillow!

                                   Ah, Cigarette! The gay coquette
                                   Has long forgot the flames she lighted
                                   And you and I unthinking by
                                   Alike are thrown, alike are slighted.
                                   The darkness gathers fast without,
                                   A rain-drop on my window plashes!
                                   My Cigarette and heart are out,
                                   And naught is left me but their ashes!
                                                            C. F. LUMNIS,
                                                                Harvard Crimson.
           Friend of my youth, companion of my later days,
             What need 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.1"

 

















  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 tbeir wives,
Plunge (after shocking lives)
Razors and carving knives
  Into their gizzards.
Confound such knavish tricks!
Vet 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. CALVERLEY.



       (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.

  This page in the original text is blank.

 














                         ube, I love thee as my life;
                         By thee I mean to choose a vife.
                         Tube. thy -or let me find,
                         In her skins, and in her mind.
                         XLet her have a sftl e as fine;
                         Let her breath he sweet as thine;
                         Let her, when her lips I kiss,
                         Burn like thee, to give me bliss;
                         Let her, in some smoke or other,
                         All my failings kindly- smother.
                         Often when my thoughts are tld,
                         Send them where they  irg/ ita
                         When to study I incline,
                         Let her aid be such as thine;
                         Such as thine the charming pow'r
                         In the vacant social hour.
                         Let her live to give delight,
                         Ever marm and ever bri    r       t     ya:
                         Let her deeds, i.hen'er she dies,
                         Mount as incense to the skies.





                              The Poets of old
                              Many fables have told
                              Of the gods and their symposia,
                              But tobacco alone,
                              Had it known it, had gone
                              For their nectar and amnbrosia.
                                --l/'n'nm " Ivtd' v A'ecreatiwts. "  I 640.


    "The first taste of new smoke is like your first love "-"I it fills up the cravings
of your soul, and the light-blue wreaths of smoke, like the roseate clouds that hang
around the morning of your heart's life, cut you off from the chill atmosphere of
mere worldly companionship, and make a gorgeous firmament for your fancy to
riot in."
   " It suggests quiet thoughts and makes a man meditative, and gives a current
to his habit of contemplation."                              IKFE MARVEL.

 












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 smoake 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,
Thinke on thy soule, defil'(l 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.




    C;    ;        L    T( -8  



'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East
  There dwelt a race whose softly-flying hours
Passed like the vision of a royal feast
  By Nero given in the Baian bowers;
Thanks to the lotos-blossom's spell,
Their lives were one long miracle.

In after years, the passing sons of met
  Looked for those lotos-blossoms all  vain
Through every hill-side, glade and glen,
eAnA e'en the isles of many a main;
Yet Trough the centuries some doom
FoWbade them see the lotos bloom. AN
The Old World wearied of the long pursuit,
D And called the sacred leaf a poet's theme,
When lo! the new world, rich in dower and fruit,
b Revealed the ltos, lovelier than a dream
Of joy and banishing regrets,
In the RICHMOND STRAIGHT CUT CIGAlETTES.



 A weeu you calit, bwt youu11 own  
No rose was e'  ore fully blow"."
             xlmf    i    HU- 7



"For thy



I would do anything but die."
        CHARLES LAMB.



Farewell to Tobacco.



-1-11-- 11 .1-11111-1 11-1-11-1--l"----,-1-1--l' . ..... -1111-111, I ''I
    "--   "                        IN    I
                  ,                                       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,
                                        ,With no wife nor kids to provoke,
                                      And puff at my pipe, while my hopes and my fears
                                         All go tip the chimney in smoke.

                                  Yet sometimes I think that a bachelor's life,
                                    Trho' it's jolly, is hut a poor joke;
                                  And I envy the man whose good vife and brains
                                    Don't go up the chiminey in smoke.

                    I sit witit my pipe, and my heart, lonesome care,  -
                      I try, but all vainly, to choke,
                      Ah, ine ! but I find that the flame that love lights
                      Won't go up the chimney in smoke.-.- ln.








                               PIPE OF MY SOUL.

                     Pipe of my soul, our perfumed reverie,
                       A mnld-eyed and mysterious ecstacy,
                     In purple whorls and delicate spires ascending,
                       L ike hope materialized, inquiringly
                     Towards the unknown Infinite is Vending.
                     The master-secret of mortality,
     ,41k,             The viewless line this visible life subtending,
                     Whilom so dim, grows almost plain to me,
                                               Pipe of my soul!
                     And as the angels come the demons flee,
                       Thy artist-influence beautifully blending
                     The light that is, the dark that may not be
                       The great Perhaps above all things impending
                     Melts large and luminous into thine and thee,
                                               Pipe of my soul.-Anon.




  "Just as the world would be a tame and insipid institution were all men's tastes
alike, so the world of smokers would lose much of its romance were all the lovers of
the weed of temperament too robust to love a cigarette."- The Tolacco P/ant.

 









                        ome say that Life's true Elixir
                           In the wine-cup only lies;
                        And when Liber fires the fancy
                           Human nature grief defies.
                         Perhaps they're right-perhaps wrong-but yet
                           (jive to me my cigarette.
                         Laughiiing Leshia swears she loves me,
                           l'outr mJ'. /ttuer 'atex the world would brave;
                         Well! there comes a richer rival-
                           Wecalth prospective digs Love's grave.
                         PIrhaps she's right-perhaps wrong-but yet
                           still I'll sniokt my cigarette.
                         Business troubles come upon us-
                           L osses. gains, in stocks and shares;
                         Faithless friends, and foes by hundreds-
                           All life's various ills and cares.
                         Perhaps I'm right-perhaps wrong-but yet

  lN E l     t          I MLet me have a cigarette.
                         Life's all smoke-at first a flicker,
                           Then we burn our little day,
                         Some burn slowly, others quicker,
                           Death comes, and we're thrown away.
                         Perhaps I'm right-perhaps wrong-but yet
                           What's life but a cigarette







             The Fiend was in a mighty passion,
               His power and craft alike defied,
             For in most arbitrary fashion
               The compact had been set aside.
             Fair angel hands from Heaven reaching
               Had come between him and his prey,
             Ah, well, the ages bring their teaching,
               And in our favored present (lay                N
             We know that Faust had quick besought him
               This moment fair-Ah, speed not yet!
             If Mephistofeles had brought him
               The Richmond Straight-Cut Cigarette.





   "Smoking is clean and sweet. and a most pleasant soother of dis-
turbed feelings; and a capital companion; and a comforter."
                                               - Ike 1farve'.

  This page in the original text is blank.

 





THE LATEST CONVERT.



II Arnmodit mnores nee sinit esSrfef-os."-O)VID.

Eve 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 Dremerary.

But each has wed some other man-
  Gidls 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
Should it grow cold, I gently wipe
  Its mouth; then fill it, light, and smoke

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 I



There's merry Nfaud--with her I'd dare
  To brave the matrimonial ocean;
She would not pout and 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 HlAY.








        TO A CIGARETTE.



Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,
  And Time's the wasting breath,
That late or early, we behold,
  Gives all to dusty death.



And what is he who smokes thee now 
  A little moving heap
That soon like thee, to fate must bow,
  With thee in dust must sleep.



x

 





        THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.
l l _3 ..



hen verdant youth sees life afar,
  And first sets out wild oats to sow,
I lc puffs a stiff and stark cigar,
  And q1uaffs champagne of Muumm & Co.
I It likes not smoking yet; lut though
  Tobacco makes him sick indeed,
Cigars and wine he can't forego:
  A slave is each man to the weed.
In time his tastes more dainty are,
  And delicate. Become a beaus
From out the country of the Czar
  He brings his cigarettes. and lo!
lie sips the vintage of Bordeaux.
  Thus keener relish shall succeed
The baser liking we outgrow:
  A slave is each man to the weed.
When age and his own lucky star,
  To him perfected wisdom show,
The schooner glides across the bar,
  And beer for him shall freely flow.
A pipe with genial warmth shall glow;
  To which he turns in direst need,
To seek in smoke surcease of woe:
  A slave is each man to the weed.



ENvoi.



Smokers! who doubt or ,ou, or pro,
  And ye who dare to drink, take heed!
And see in smoke a friendly foe:
  A slave is each man to the weed.

I Jr            -BRANDER NIATTIhEWS.



Little tube of mighty power,
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 braced;
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.



Ajior

 












                 he pipe draws wisdom
                 Vfrom the lips of the philosopher,
                 and shuts up the mouth of the
                 foolish ; it generates a style
                 of conversation, contemplative,
                 thoughtful, benevolent and un-
                 affected. "-Thackeray.





  "ie who doth not smoke hath either known no great griefs, or refuseth himself
the softest consolation next to that which comes from Heaven."-Bu/wer [vt/on.





  " I have no doubt that it is from the habit of smoking that Turks and American
Indians are such monstrous well-bred men."-Thackeray.



  Thackeray says that while smoking "Sentiments are
delivered in a grave, easy manner-it harmonizes the
society and soothes at once the speaker and the subject
whereon he converses."






      " On the whole, then, woman in this scale, the weed
   in that-Jupiter hang out thy balance and weigh them
   both; and if you give the preference to woman, all I can
   say is, the next time Juno ruffles thee-O Jupiter, try the
   weed.-Butier Lotton.



" May I die if [ abuse that kindly weed which has given me so much pleasure." - Thakkerav.

 





                                  ASHES.

                    rapped in a sadly tattered gown,
                    lAone I puff my briar brown,
          ,.. .F S And watch the ashes settle down
                 In lambent flashes;
                    While thro' the blue, thick, curling haze,
      X k       l   I l . t I strive with feeble eyes to gaze,
                    Upon the half-forgotten days
                      That left but ashes.
                Again we wander through the lane,
                    Beneath the elms and out again,
                    Across the rippling fields of grain,
                      Where softly plashes
                    A slender brook 'mid banks of fern,
                    At every sigh my pulses burn,
                    At every thought I slowly turn
                      And find but ashes.
                    What made my fingers tremble so.
                    As you wrapped skeins of worsted snow,
                    Around them, now with movements slow
                      And now with dashes
                    Maybe 'tis smoke that blinds my eyes,
                    Maybe a tear within them lies;
                    But as I puff my pipe there flies
                      Acloud of ashes.
                    Perhaps you did not understand,
                    How lightly flames of love were fanned.
                    Ah, every thought and wish I've planned
                      With something clashes!
                    And yet within my lonely den
                    Over a pipe, away from men,
                    I love to throw aside my pen
                      And stir the ashes.
                                        DE. WITT STERRY.



   Lord Tennyson is a heavy smoker, and so was Thomas Carlyle. The story of
Tennyson calling on Carlyle one evening, and sitting in solemn silence smoking for
hours is well known. "Man Alfred," said Carlyle as he showed the Poet Laureate
out, "   lWe have ha'en a graund nicht. Come back again soons!"
   James Payn, the novnlist, cannot remember the time when he did not smoke.
Mark Twain, at the age of thirty, used to smoke 300 cigars per month. Mr. George
Augustus Sala has been a constant smoker for forty years, and bears, emphatic testi-
mony in favor of smoking. "The allegation," he says, "as to smoking stupifying a
man's faculties or blunting his energy, I take to be mainly nonsense."

   Carlyle, like Tennyson, did not care for a cigar, but kept a pipe in his mouth
most of his waking hours, and Thackeray, like Bums, loved to get away by himself
and enjoy the flavor of a rank tobacco pipe.

 













\Sniy9W; 






  iS: Wg :X; g

 This page in the original text is blank.

 








A SONG, AFER SHERIDAN.







,ere's to the hookah, with snake of five feet,
    )r the " portalelC tix'dl to one's "t(l)pper
 I [ere's to) the meerschatim, miore naugsity than neat,
   And here's to all pipes that are proper.
              Fill tht-ImI "p tight,
              Give 'ellm a light,
     I'll wager a smoke  ill set everything right.
 I [ere's to the \Vardlen's twelve intchcs of stalk,
   I Iere's to Jack Tar's clay, with one, sir
 To the pipes no iw withi motntings, so rich that
          the  'walk,''
   And here's tb most pipes -which have nonie, sir.
              Fill themll oll) tigllt, &c.
 l[ere's to the  il o just out of the shop,
   With mootihipitce as Iry as pale sherry
 Ilere's to youor veterans, wt as a mlop,
   Iflack- as a sloe ir a cherry.
              Fill them lIp tight, &C.
 I.et thenm le cilimsy, or let them h e limi,
   Iiight or- heavy, I care not a feather           A
 So fill them with 'ilaccy right "i) to the rim,
   And let us all silike themi together.
              Fill themn up tight,
              G(ive 'ems a light,
     I'll wager a smoke will set everything right.
     d :ft         ---F l-onl9 C.,hz's 7WIce"oZ.r Planrt.


   IN WREATHS OF SMOKE.
 ln wreaths of smoke, blown way\ arulwise,
 'aces o)f oldcn lays uprise,
   Al( inl his dreamiery revery
   I hey haiunt the smoker's brain, and lie
   eathes for thet past regretful sighs.

        mNIci'ries of maili with azure eyes,
        In dewy (dells, 'nealth June's soft skies.
          Faces that more he'll only see
                   InI wreaths of smoke.

             Ehleu, eleu . how fast Time flies-
             I low youlithtinie passion droops andl dies,
               And all the countless visions flee !
               I low worn wouldl all those faces he,
             Were they not swathed in soft disguise
                        In wreaths of smoke
                              -I, ranik X\,-;,toii /Iobnan.

 







AFTER A. C. SWINSURNE.



If love were dhudeen olden,
    And I were lIke the weed,
Oh ! we would live together,
And love the jolly weather,
And bask in sunshine golden,
    Rare pals of choicest breed
  If love were dhudeen olden,
    And I were like the weed.


If you were oil essential,
    And I were nicotine,
We'd hatch up wicked treason,
And spoil each smoker's reason,
Till he grew penitential,
     And turned a bilious green
   If you were oil essential,
     And I were nicotine.



                  If you were snuff, my darling,
                      And 1, your love, the box,
                  We'd live and -sneeze together,
                  Shut out from all the weather,
                  And anti-snuffers snarling,
                      In neckties orthodox;
                    If you were snuff, my darling,
                      And 1, your love, the box.


                   If you were shag of dark hue,
                       And I were mild bird's eye,
                   We'd scent the passing hours,
                   And fumigate the flowers;
                   And in the midnight hark you,
                       The Norfold Howards should die
                     If you were shag of dark hue,
                       And I were mild bird's eye.


                   If you were the aroma,
                       And I were simply smoke,
                   We'd skyward fly together,
                   As light as any feather
                   And flying high as Homer,
                       His grey old ghost we'd choke;
                     If you were the aroma,
                       And I were simply smoke.
                           -Fromt Cope's Tobacco Plant.


WEETER THAN ROSES.

  Sweet is the Summer wind that blows
    From tangled beds of mignonette;
  But sweeter far the air that flows
l O'er new-mown hay with rain-drops wet.
  And sweet from petals of the rose,
    The attar that the Turk distils;
  And sweetest that a mortal knows
    The wild rose of the Summer hills.
  Yet there's a richer rare perfume,
    Ah who that's known it, can forget,
  Of perfect bliss, the bud and bloom,
    A RICHMOND STRAIGHT-CUT CIGARETTE.



                              Of Dixie with its hearts of oak
A                              It forms to-day the crowning fame.
                              Who gives us this ideal smoke
                              Allen & Ginter is their name.

   "I can quite believe the Prussian doctor, who recommended to a consumptive
countryman to smoke Virginia Tobacco, just as an English physician in the like case
would advise a change of air."- Thomnas Hood.
  " Up the Rhine."

 






I AN ADDRESS TO THE CRITICS.

ritics avaunt- Tobacco is my theme;
  Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam
    Snd you, court insects, flutter not too near
    t glt, nor buzz within its scorching sphere.
  1ollin, with flame like thine, my verse inspire,
  So shall the Muse, with smoke, elicit fire;
  Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff,
  'Yet all their claim to wisdom is -a puff.
L 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 show their ignorance ; can he
- Who scorns the leaf of knowledge love the tree
  Citronia vows it has an odious stink,
  She will not smoke, ye gods, but she will drink
  And chaste Prudella-blame her, if you canl-
  Says pipes are used by that vile creature-man.
  Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim,
  For some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame -
  Fame, of our actions, universal spring,
  For which we drink, eat, sleep. smoke-everything.
           BY W. A. DELAMOTTE.--1845.



ON A TOBACCO JAR.



Three hundred years ago or soe,
  One worthy knight and gentlemanne
Did bring me here, to charm and chere,
  To physical and mental manne.
God bless his soule who filled ye howle,
  And may our blessings find him;
That he not miss some share of blisse
  Who left soe much behind him.
                  BERNARD BARKER.



1T N
         t



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Sn,



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I I I              &

 






  "There is a butterfly-beauty about the cigarette to which the cigar and the
pipe can lay no claim-a summer charm to stir the dreaming rapture of a poet,
and to excite the Lotus-eating philosopher even to analogy. "



s, circling upward through the air,
  The hazy cloudlet softly swings,
A glad young girl, with golden hair,
  Laughs lightly from the fleeting wings.
We wandered once through woodland ways,
We whispered vows of truth and love:
'rhe happy unforgotten days
  Are mirrored in the clouds above.
O )ld loves, old faiths, I dream of yet,
Although she broke my heart for sport
  Our bliss was like a cigarette,-
  The time it lasted sweet anti short.
         --at. fo0s.srilh in London M