A pot wherein to spit or spue, * This village, unmolested yet By troopers, shall be my retreat : And scorning rascals to caress, Come jovial pipe, and bring along I ask not what the French are doing, Or Spain to compass Britain's ruin : :0: HORACE. In imitation of Epode III. AN ODE AGAINST TOBACCO. FOR parricide, that worst of crimes, How callous are the lab'rers jaws, Sure, this vile drug, that serv'd me thus, Or else some hag, with midnight wish, Of Satan's own preparing. This was the charm Medea taught To steal the Golden Fleece with; Pleas'd she had spoil'd his wenching. My merry lord, if quid or whiff May you meet with what you dread most, From The Gentleman's Magazine. May, 1744. -:0: Elegy. WRITTEN OVER AN OLD PIPE-BOX. THE postman hits his last rat-tat to day, My wife reposes in her white array; The night is left to "Bacca" and to me. Now starts a glimmering bottle on the sight, All raving now, at yonder area gate, The moping "bobbies" to the cooks complain Beneath this hingeless lid, bound round with braid, 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, Their smoke, too strong, would all my nerves impair. Oft have they lain with me in some green field; 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, Full many a pipe, of purest briar root, The stern schoolmaster confiscates and breaks; One colour'd meerschaum that, in hidden poke 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 liked his beer, but warn't a drunken cove. "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 ! " HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON TOBACCO. TO SMOKE or not to smoke, that is the question : Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness, Which some would say was nothing but a faintness; 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 Is drown'd and soon forgot in good October. TO SMOKE, OR NOT TO SMOKE. To smoke, or not to smoke-that is the question! Rare Bits. November 18, 1882. -:0: 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, 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. And had to smoke-oh! wretched elf! 'Tis the last weed of Hudson's All his dark brown Regalias No "Lopez" is mine, And fragrance divine. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! Shall rise o'er my head, And soon may I follow Those lov'd ones' decay; Since from each tempting bundle THE BUTCHER BOY. THE butcher boy down the road has gone, "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, And cried, "No dough shall sully thee, 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 When sugar-sticks and almond rock 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 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- And when I my stern parent met, 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. :0: I REMEMBER. (After Hood.) I REMEMBER, I remember, With red waxed end and snowy bowl, It perfect was and new. It measured just four inches long, I found when I began to smoke, I remember, I remember, And when I smoked a little time, In a way you may suppose. I remember, I remember, The very rod he got, When father who discovered me, He scattered all my feathers then, I sat upon a cold hearthstone, I was so warm behind. I remember, I remember, I viewed the rod with dread, I bundled off to bed. It was a childish punishment, To know that, for the self-same crime, I wallop my own boy! From Cope's Tobacco Plant. March, 1875. 0: 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. With scented Latakie they burn, And golden crowns they wear; The merry pipes of England, The cottage pipes of England- How beautiful are they! The free, fair pipes of England From Cope's Tobacco Plant. April 1873. :0: 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; Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there, And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke, And talked and laughed about life's little day, And sighed to think what transient things they were, An elfin sprite, who held within her hand |