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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 eyesTheir 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 ! "

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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 deth 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.

Rare Bits. November 18, 1882.

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JOHN W. FARrell.

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,

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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.

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'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

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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!"

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,

H. L.

And he wears a collar in the streets
That hides his ears:
The vilePickwick "
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.

From Cope's Tobacco Plant. December, 1872.

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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.

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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 ;

H. L.

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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.

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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)

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