Let us, then, take weeds and matches, And a pipe-that is enough; Spared from toil, we still will puff! From Cope's Tobacco Plant. March, 1876. MEERSCHAUM. COME to me, O! my meerschaum, I open my study window And into the twilight peer, For the man with my evening beer. In one hand is the shining pewter, Ah! what would the world be to us Tobaccoless?-Fearful bore! We should dread the day after to-morrow As the elephant's trunk to the creature, As the cud to the peaceful cow. So to the world is smoking; Through that we feel, with bliss, Come to me, O! my meerschaum, Oh! what are our biggest winnings Though fortune may give us an innings, You're better than all the fortunes For a penny will always fill you, 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, I spun a quid up in the air, And that fell down, I knew not where ; Shortly I found my pipe again, On the head of my uncle broke in twain; Cope's Tobacco Plant. June, 1876. :0: ANOTHER MATCH. Rare pals of choicest breed ; If I were what cigars are, And love were like the case, In double rows or single, 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 oil essential, And turned a bilious green; If you were shag of dark hue, The Norfold Howards should die If you were Shag of dark hue, If you were the aroma, And I were simply smoke, 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 This is a cause of every smoker's ire. The burden of bad 'Bacca: This is worse. The burden of burnt breeches: Nay, sit down; The market women all about the town This is a cause of every smoker's ire. The burden of the missus: oh! her tongue The burden of mean cadgers; thou shalt flee And thou shalt say of 'Bacca, "It hath been This is a cause of every smoker's ire. The burden of sad Antis: Every day 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, The burden of the fusees: Some won't light, And counts his fortune in far, foreign lands This is a cause of every smoker's ire. The burden of fierce headaches: When we must Smokers, and ye whom 'Bacca tickleth, "LAND ho! he cried' "I see it now," says he, A land of smokers! smoking fast were some, 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, Is heard afar, and vast musquitoes sing, And round about and in and out, on odorous wing,. 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; Let's all together not go home till by-and-by!" Why leave dry land to sail on boiling water? 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! Let us alone. We have no strength to row, 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, And see the waves rush up, our joy to share, 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. 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, '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, 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 No little room so warm and bright, THE WEED. I COME from vaunted root, and burn I sparkle, and to ashes turn, Thrice thirty ills that press folks down, In country, city, little town, My charm some care abridges. Yon chattering Stiggins with a craze, Ay chatter, with thy face of woe; They go about, and fume and spout, I'm smoked on lawns and grassy plots, There is not under moon and stars, A plant that care more stoutly bars, * 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 A smell I never could admire. Before the colour gets much higher, The heathen Turk of Istamboul, 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 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, He brings his cigarettes, and lo! |