Let us, then, take weeds and matches,

And a pipe-that is enough;
Tho' it only be by snatches,

Spared from toil, we still will puff!

From Cope's Tobacco Plant. March, 1876.

MEERSCHAUM.

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

I open my study window

And into the twilight peer,
And my anxious eyes are watching

For the man with my evening beer.

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

Ah! what would the world be to us

Tobaccoless?-Fearful bore!

We should dread the day after to-morrow
Worse than the day before.

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

As the cud to the peaceful cow.

So to the world is smoking;

Through that we feel, with bliss,
That, whatever worlds come after,
A jolly old world is this.

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

Oh! what are our biggest winnings
If peaceful content we miss?

Though fortune may give us an innings,
She seldoms conveys us bliss.

You're better than all the fortunes
That ever were made or broke;

For a penny will always fill you,
And buy me content with a smoke.

WRONGFELLOW.

THE PIPE AND THE QUID.

An imitation of Longfellow's "The Arrow and the Song."

I FLUNG a pipe into the air,

And it fell down, I knew not where;

For many folks were near to me,
And so I did not stay to see.

I spun a quid up in the air,

And that fell down, I knew not where ;
For 'twould require the strongest sight
To follow a quid in its erring flight.

Shortly I found my pipe again,

On the head of my uncle broke in twain;
And the quid I had not seen descend,
I found in the eye of my dearest friend.
WRONGFELLOW.

Cope's Tobacco Plant. June, 1876.

:0:

ANOTHER MATCH.
(After A. C. Swinburne.)
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 I were what cigars are,

And love were like the case,

In double rows or single,
Our varied scents we'd mingle,
Both brown as Persian shahs are-
(You recollect his face);

If I were what cigars are,

And love were like the case.

If you were snuff, my darling, And I, 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 I, your love, the box.

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 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.

From Cope's Tobacco Plant. August, 1876.

ANOTHER BALLAD OF MORE BURDENS.

(After Swinburne.)

THE burden of false meerschaums: Fair to sight
Built up by scamps in a most fraudful way,
With glass for amber, can't be seen at night,
But looketh what it is in truthful day.
And bowls that turn (with dirt) to dirty grey,
And narrow bores that all our jaws do tire,
And fill our souls with horrible dismay.

This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of bad 'Bacca: This is worse.
A burden with full fruit of mild swearing:
We drop the pipe to drop a gentle curse,
Six score between the morn and evening.
The quivering of the glands, the shuddering,
The wheezy grunts with which we do respire,
Makes "weed" seem horrid and a treacherous thing.
This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of burnt breeches: Nay, sit down;
Cover thyself and sleep; for verily

The market women all about the town
Behind thy back shall laugh and hoot at thee.
Like the red beet-root all thy face shall be ;
That box of lights set thy coat tails on fire,
And burnt thee bare. Tarry till daylight flee.

This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of the missus: oh! her tongue
Shall let thee rest not, e'en upon thy bed;
For that her curtains at the window hung,
Of stale smoke smelling, fill her soul with dread.
With mutton cold thou shalt be often fed,
And drink cold grog, against thy warm desire,
And wear a broomstick round thy shrinking head.
This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of mean cadgers; thou shalt flee
All ways at once, but still they will be seen;
And at the thing thou seest thy face shalt be
Transmogrified, and not at all serene.

And thou shalt say of 'Bacca, "It hath been
Consumed by me;" and they shall whisper "Liar ;"
And go their ways with chagrin turning green.

This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of sad Antis: Every day
They will prognosticate thy doom, and tell
Where thou art going to at last, and say

The place is warm and undesirable.

And swear that for a mile thy clothes do smell; And preach to thee till thy whole soul doth tire; Then, going, groan-just for a parting knell.

This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of the taxes: Spoiled is Spring,
With fragrant 'Bacca 'neath the growing trees,
To think of what we pay for this one thing,
The dearest physic for our miseries.
For, at each puff, the weeping smoker sees
His wreath fly up, away, and higher, higher,
Till thoughts of bankruptcy do make him freeze.
This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of the fusees: Some won't light,
And some will spit out fire upon the hands;
The wretch who sells them slinketh in the night,

And counts his fortune in far, foreign lands
Where police are not, and where are no cab-stands,
While we still on his head heap curses dire
And blame the makers of the various brands.

This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

The burden of fierce headaches: When we must
Forsake the weed, altho' 'tis our delight,
When all our eyes seem red with blinding dust,
And on our head a weight hangs day and night,
And our red faces, lo! are bloodless white;
When nothing in the world we do admire,
And folks do ask us when we last were tight.
This is a cause of every smoker's ire.
L'ENVOY.

Smokers, and ye whom 'Bacca tickleth,
Heed what is here before the weed you fire;
You cannot smoke for ever. Where's your breath?
This is a cause of every smoker's ire.

"LAND ho! he cried' "I see it now," says he,
"This jolly breeze will fetch us soon to land."
Towards night they got there, time for early tea,
A land where tea seemed ever smoking hot to stand.
Thick clouds of smoke, by sleepy breezes fanned,
Twined, serpent like, o'er all, in curves and twists;
The setting sun glared red and angry, close at hand,
And from his steaming brow fell off the mists,
As falls the sweat from boxers, boxing with their fists.
II.

A land of smokers! smoking fast were some,
Quick, restless puffers wand'ring to and fro;
And some, with drowsy eyes and senses dumb,
Rolled heavy smoke-clouds very long and slow.

The strangers saw the smokers come and go

Along the shore, in groups of eight and sometimes ten, From somewhere up above to somewhere down below; Strange, dingy faces, strongly-perfumed men,

Smelling as husbands when their wives ask, where they've been.

III.

The sun went out, the moon began to rise,
But could not shine; smoke rests on everything
And closes o'er the sea; the hum of flies

Is heard afar, and vast musquitoes sing,
Who buzz and nearer buzz, then 'light and sting;
A place where all things always sleepy feel!

And round about and in and out, on odorous wing,.
With faces like an owl, and tail unlike an eel,
The red-eyed ghosts of old Tobacco-smokers steal.

IV.

Great leaves of that disgusting weed they brought, And some chopped fine to chew, and also snuff,

They sat them down upon the dingy shore, Betwixt the moonlight and the moonlight's ray,

And closed their eyes with heavy eyelids o'er,

And saw the "old folks' " faces far "at home" away;
But dark and dismal seemed the tossing bay,
Dismal the hammock's swing, the boatswain's cry.
Then one man said, "We won't go home, to-day!"
And all at once chimed in, 66
Agreed say I ;

Let's all together not go home till by-and-by!"

Why leave dry land to sail on boiling water?
Why make our short lives, any longer, shorter
By still debating, while the minutes flee?

All folks smoke here; why only smoke not we?

We who have smoked vile smoke as e'er was known,

And chewed vile chews on land and sea,

Still from a bad one to a worse one thrown!

Nor ever end our woes,

By snuffing up the nose,

Nor yield our senses to the potent spell;

Nor hearken to the song that o'er us goes; "No joy that tongue can tell

Is like what enters thro' the avenue of smell!"

III.

Hateful is the pea-green sky, Hanging o'er the pea-green seaLife ends in smoke, oh! why

Should life all labor be?

Let us alone. We do not want to go!
Since life's a vapor, smoke it all away!

Let us alone. We have no strength to row,
We won't attempt it, anyhow, to-day.
Let us alone. What fun can sailors find
In climbing up a wave, and down behind?

All folks have rest excepting only tars,

Their work is always of the endless kind;

Give us a smoke or sleep, sound sleep or good cigars!

To dream and dream like yonder aged frog,
Which only leaves his hole, the smoky leg,
To muse amid abandoned stumps near by;
Chewing Tobacco, here to lie

And see the waves rush up, our joy to share,
Clutching with eager arms the vacant air,
To grasp the sweets the scented breezes bear;
To give our minds up to it wholly,
To chase away blue-thoughted melancholy,
To put rich flavorous, antique fine-cut tobacco,
Into these pipes by steady use grown blacker;
Pressed down with thumb to make it stay;
Two pinches of black dust shut in a bowl of clay.

They would not know us now, so dirty grown :

So strong we smell they'd slam the angry door,

Thinking our souls upon the wings of smoke had flown, Been puffed away upon this dingy shore,

Leaving behind the wasted stumps alone,

Fit on the ash-pile only to be thrown.
Let what is, be as 'tis, of course;

A wife is hard to reconcile;

We might be driven out by force;

'Tis hard to fix things, when they've run awhile; 'Twould be at best our labor for our pains ;

He gains but little who a woman gains:

Sad work, for hearts worn out with household noise,

And arms grown lame long since with nursing baby-boys!

Swearing men, nor scolding women, barking dogs, nor tyrant boys.

But they smile, they smell a prospect of a dinner byand-bye,

Steaming up, a preparation making in the kitchens nigh,
And their tail is full of meaning when it's curled so high!
But the luckless race of human labor for their life,
Plant and dig and raise potatoes, mostly keep a wife;
Wife who scolds them late and early, more than one would
think,

'Till they lose their senses nearly-some, 'tis whispered, take to drink

Swigging endless potions-others in Tobacco islands dwell,

It puts all troublous thoughts to flight,
Sending dull spirits left and right,
While yielding joy by day and night.

This is a parody of a little poem by Alfred Tennyson, published in 1833, but afterwards omitted from his works, probably because of the ridicule it received from Lord Lytton in "The New Timon":

O DARLING room, my heart's delight
Dear room, the apple of my sight,
With thy two couches soft and white,
There is no room so exquisite,

No little room so warm and bright,
Wherein to read, wherein to write.

THE WEED.

I COME from vaunted root, and burn
To many a merry sally;

I sparkle, and to ashes turn,
Men's spirits worn to rally.

Thrice thirty ills that press folks down,
I fumigate like midges;

In country, city, little town,

My charm some care abridges.

Yon chattering Stiggins with a craze,
In little sharps and trebles,
A hubbub makes in my dispraise-
Demosthenes, sans pebbles.

Ay chatter, with thy face of woe;
With bile and anger quiver;
Thus Antis come and Antis go,
But I'm smoked on for ever.

They go about, and fume and spout,
Against Tobacco railing,
With here and there a lusty shout,
And here and there a wailing.

I'm smoked on lawns and grassy plots,
By sportsmen in the covers;
My cloud's blue as forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

There is not under moon and stars,
In this world's wildernesses,

A plant that care more stoutly bars,
Or labour better blesses.

*

The following can scarcely be termed parodies, they are poems in praise of Tobacco written in the newly-revived but old-fashioned Ballade metre.

BALLADE OF THE BEST PIPE.

I HEAR you fervently extol
The virtues of your ancient clay,
As black as any piece of coal.
To me it smells of rank decay
And bones of people passed away,-

A smell I never could admire.
With all respect to you I say,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Poor Jones, whose judgment as a whole
Is faultless, has been led astray
To nurse a costly meerschaum bowl.
Well, let him nurse it as he may,
I hardly think he'll find it pay.

Before the colour gets much higher,
He'll drop it on the grate some day.
Give me a finely seasoned brier.

The heathen Turk of Istamboul,
In Oriental turban gay,
Delights his unregenerate soul
With hookahs, bubbling in a way
To fill a Christian with dismay,

And wake the old Crusading fire. May no such pipe be mine I pray ! Give me a finely seasoned brier

ENVOY.

Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they
That I should view them with desire?

I'll sing, till all my hair is grey,

Give me a finely seasoned brier.

The University News Sheet. St. Andrews, N. B. March 3, 1886.

THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO. WHEN verdant youth sees life afar,

And first sets out wild oats to sow, He puffs a stiff and stark cigar,

And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co. He likes not smoking yet; but 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 beau,
From out the country of the Czar

He brings his cigarettes, and lo!
He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.