Pipe and Pouch - The Smoker's Own Book of Poetry
Author: Various
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This is an age of anthologies. Collections of poetry covering a wide range of subjects have appeared of late, and seem to have met with favor and approval. Not to the busy man only, but to the student of literature such compilations are of value. It is sometimes objected that they tend to discourage wide reading and original research; but the overwhelming flood of books would seem to make them a necessity. Unless one has the rare gift of being able to sprint through a book, as Andrew Lang says Mr. Gladstone does, it is surely well to make use of the labors of the industrious compiler. Such collections are often the result of wide reading and patient labor. Frequently the larger part is made up of single poems, the happy and perhaps only inspiration of the writer, gleaned from the poet's corner of the newspaper or the pages of a magazine. This is specially true of the present compilation, the first on the subject aiming at anything like completeness. Brief collections of prose and poetry combined have already been published; but so much of value has been omitted that there seemed to be room for a better book. A vast amount has been written in praise of tobacco, much of it commonplace or lacking in poetic quality. While some of the verse here gathered is an obvious echo, or passes into unmistakable parody, it has been the aim of the compiler to maintain, as far as possible, a high standard and include only the best. From the days of Raleigh to the present time, literature abounds in allusions to tobacco. The Elizabethan writers constantly refer to it, often in praise though sometimes in condemnation. The incoming of the "Indian weed" created a great furore, and scarcely any other of the New World discoveries was talked about so much. Ben Jonson, Marlowe, Fletcher, Spenser, Dekker, and many other of the poets and dramatists of the time, make frequent reference to it; and no doubt at the Mermaid tavern, pipes and tobacco found a place beside the sack and ale. Singular to say, Shakespeare makes no reference to it; and only once in his essay "Of Plantations," as far as the compiler has been able to discover, does Bacon speak of it. Shakespeare's silence has been explained on the theory that he could not introduce any reference to the newly discovered plant without anachronism; but he did not often let a little thing of this kind stand in his way. It has been suggested, on the other hand, that he avoided all reference to it out of deference to King James I., who wrote the famous "Counterblast." Whichever theory is correct, the fact remains, and it may be an interesting contribution to the Bacon-Shakespeare controversy. Queen Elizabeth never showed any hostility to tobacco; but her successors, James I. and the two Charleses, and Cromwell were its bitter opponents. Notwithstanding its enemies, who just as fiercely opposed the introduction of tea and coffee, its use spread over Europe and the world, and prince and peasant alike yielded to its mild but irresistible sway. Poets and philosophers drew solace and inspiration from the pipe. Milton, Addison, Fielding, Hobbes, and Newton were all smokers. It is said Newton was smoking under a tree in his garden when the historic apple fell. Scott, Campbell, Byron, Hood, and Lamb all smoked, and Carlyle and Tennyson were rarely without a pipe in their mouths. The great novelists, Thackeray, Dickens, and Bulwer were famous smokers; and so were the great soldiers, Napoleon, Bluecher, and Grant. While nearly all the poems here gathered together were written, and perhaps could only have been written, by smokers, several among the best are the work of authors who never use the weed,—one by a man, two or three by women. Among the more recent writers there has been no more devoted smoker than Mr. Lowell, as his recently published letters testify. Three of the most delightful poems in praise of smoking are his, and with Mr. Aldrich's charming "Latakia" are the gems of the collection. The compiler desires to express his grateful acknowledgments to friends who have permitted him to use their work and have otherwise aided him from time to time; and to the many unknown authors whose poems are here gathered, and whom it was quite impossible to reach; and to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Company, Harper & Brothers, The Bowen-Merrill Company, and the publishers of "Outlook," for their gracious permission to include copyrighted poems.


BOSTON, July, 1894.

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PAGE Acrostic J.H. 44 Ad Nicotina E.N.S. 118 Another Match Cope's Tobacco Plant 45 Ashes De Witt Sterry 47


Bachelor's Invocation, A Pall Mall Gazette 182 Bachelor's Views, A Tom Hall 177 Bachelor's Soliloquy Cigar and Tobacco World 95 Ballad of the Pipe, The Hermann Rave 69 Ballade of Tobacco, The Brander Matthews 54 Betrothed, The Rudyard Kipling 108 Brief Puff of Smoke, A Selim 19


Cannon Song H.P. Peck 85 Chibouque Francis S. Saltus 173 Choosing a wife by a Pipe of Tobacco Gentleman's Magazine 48 Cigar, The Thomas Hood 153 Cigarette Rings J. Ashby-Sterry 147 Cigars and Beer George Arnold 166 Clouds Bauernfeld 52 Confession of a Cigar Smoker Anon. 158


Discovery of Tobacco Cigar and Tobacco World 64 Dreamer's Pipe, The New Orleans Times Democrat 96 Duet, The Ella Wheeler Wilcox 174


Edifying Reflections of a Tobacco Smoker Translated from the German 58 Effusion by a Cigar Smoker Horace Smith 167 Encomium on Tobacco, An Anon. 36 Epitaph Anon. 17


Farewell to Tobacco, A Charles Lamb 100 Farmer's Pipe, The George Cooper 7 Forsaken of all comforts Sir Robert Ayton 140 Free Puff, A Arthur Irving Gray 121 Friend of my youth Anon. 164


Geordie to his Tobacco Pipe George S. Phillips 25 Glass is Good, A John O'Keefe 94 Good Cigar, A Norris Bull 93


Happy Smoking Ground, The Richard Le Gallienne 145 Her Brother's Cigarette Anon. 79 He Respondeth Life 55 How it Once Was New York Sun 78


If I were King W.E. Henley 171 I like Cigars Ella Wheeler Wilcox 121 In Favor of Tobacco Samuel Rowlands 52 Ingin Summer Eva Wilder McGlasson 57 Inscription for a Tobacco Jar Cope's Tobacco Plant 12 In Rotten Row W.E. Henley 174 In the ol' Tobacker Patch S.Q. Lapius 80 In the smoke of my dear cigarito Camilla K. von K. 92 Invocation to Tobacco Henry James Mellen 31 In wreaths of Smoke Frank Newton Holman 46 It may be Weeds Anon. 23


"Keats took Snuff" The Globe 68 Knickerbocker Austin Dobson 63


Last Pipe, The London Spectator 12 Latakia T.B. Aldrich 142 Latest Comfort, The F.W. Littleton Hay 157 Loss, A Judy 128 Lost Lotus, The Anon. 60


Maecenas Bids his Friend to Dine Anon. 81 Meerschaum Wrongfellow 119 Motto for a Tobacco Jar Anon. 12 My After-Dinner Cloud Henry S. Leigh 143 My Cigar Arthur W. Gundry 2 My Cigarette Richard Barnard 52 My Cigarette Charles F. Lummis 113 My Cigarette Tom Hall 176 My Friendly Pipe Detroit Tribune 94 My Little Brown Pipe Amelia E. Barr 138 My Meerschaum Pipe Johnson M. Mundy 123 My Meerschaums Charles F. Lummis 131 My Pipe German Smoking Song 7 My Pipe and I Elton J. Buckley 106 My Three Loves Henry S. Leigh 50


Ode of Thanks, A James Russell Lowell 33 Ode to My Pipe Andrew Wynter 14 Ode to Tobacco Daniel Webster 95 Ode to Tobacco C.S. Calverly 134 Old Clay Pipe, The A.B. Van Fleet 71 Old Pipe of Mine John J. Gormley 83 Old Sweetheart of Mine, An James Whitcomb Riley 165 On a Broken Pipe Anon. 112 On a Tobacco Jar Bernard Barker 38 On Receipt of a Rare Pipe W.H.B. 135


Patriotic Smoker's Lament St. James Gazette 41 Pernicious Weed William Cowper 73 Pipe and Tobacco German Folk Song 156 Pipe Critic, The Walter Littlefield 115 Pipe of Tobacco, A John Usher 15 Pipe of Tobacco, A Henry Fielding 163 Pipes and Beer Edgar Fawcett 178 Pipe you make Yourself, The Henry E. Brown 172 Poet's Pipe, The Charles Baudelaire 2 Pot and a Pipe of Tobacco, A Universal Songster 169


Scent of a good Cigar, The Kate A. Carrington 61 Seasonable Sweets C. 23 Sic Transit W.B. Anderson 108 Sir Walter Raleigh! name of worth Anon. 158 Smoke and Chess Samuel W. Duffield 10 Smoke is the Food of Lovers Jacob Cats 51 Smoker's Reverie, The Anon. 17 Smoker's Calendar, The Anon. 159 Smoke Traveller, The Irving Browne #74 Smoking Away Francis Miles Finch 98 Smoking Song Anon. 77 Smoking Spiritualized Ralph Erskine 148 Song of the Smoke-Wreaths L.T.A. 9 Song without a Name, A W. Lloyd 117 Sublime Tobacco Lord Byron 97 Sweet Smoking Pipe Anon. 146 Symphony in Smoke, A Harper's Bazaar 22


Those Ashes R.K. Munkittrick 130 Titlepage Dedication Anon. 44 To an Old Pipe De Witt Sterry 43 To a Pipe of Tobacco Gentleman's Magazine 91 Tobacco George Wither 86 Tobacco Thomas Jones 151 Tobacco is an Indian Weed From "Pills to Purge Melancholy" 150 Tobacco, some say Anon. 164 To C.F. Bradford James Russell Lowell 5 To My Cigar Charles Sprague 62 To My Cigar Friedrich Marc 165 To My Meerschaum P.D.R. 82 Too Great a Sacrifice Anon. 90 To see her Pipe Awry C.F. 55 To the Rev. Mr. Newton William Cowper 126 To the Tobacco Pipe The Meteor, London 39 True Leucothoe, The Anon. 129 'Twas off the Blue Canaries Joseph Warren Fabens 140 Two other Hearts London Tobacco 73


Valentine, A Anon. 113 Virginia's kingly Plant Anon. 87 Virginia Tobacco Stanley Gregson 31


Warning, A Arthur Lovell 124 What I Like H.L. 131 Winter Evening Hymn to My Fire, A James Russell Lowell 105 With Pipe and Book Richard Le Gallienne 1

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With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweeter, mortal, say? It matters not what book on knee, Old Izaak or the Odyssey, It matters not meerschaum or clay.

And though one's 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 gray, As bards aver, I will not pray For "soothing Death" to succor me, But ask this much, O Fate, of thee, A little longer yet to stay With Pipe and Book.




A poet's pipe am I, And my Abyssinian tint Is an unmistakable hint That he lays me not often by. When his soul is with grief o'erworn I smoke like the cottage where They are cooking the evening fare For the laborer's return.

I enfold and cradle his soul In the vapors moving and blue That mount from my fiery mouth; And there is power in my bowl To charm his spirit and soothe, And heal his weariness too.



In spite of my physician, who is, entre nous, a fogy, And for every little pleasure has some pathologic bogy, Who will bear with no small vices, and grows dismally prophetic If I wander from the weary way of virtue dietetic;

In spite of dire forewarnings that my brains will all be scattered, My memory extinguished, and my nervous system shattered, That my hand will take to trembling, and my heart begin to flutter, My digestion turn a rebel to my very bread and butter;

As I puff this mild Havana, and its ashes slowly lengthen, I feel my courage gather and my resolution strengthen: I will smoke, and I will praise you, my cigar, and I will light you With tobacco-phobic pamphlets by the learned prigs who fight you!

Let him who has a mistress to her eyebrow write a sonnet, Let the lover of a lily pen a languid ode upon it; In such sentimental subjects I'm a Philistine and cynic, And prefer the inspiration drawn from sources nicotinic.

So I sing of you, dear product of (I trust you are) Havana, And if there's any question as to how my verses scan, a Reason is my shyness in the Muses' aid invoking, As, like other ancient maidens, they perchance object to smoking.

I have learnt with you the wisdom of contemplative quiescence, While the world is in a ferment of unmeaning effervescence, That its jar and rush and riot bring no good one-half so sterling As your fleecy clouds of fragrance that are now about me curling.

So, let stocks go up or downward, and let politicians wrangle, Let the parsons and philosophers grope in a wordy tangle, Let those who want them scramble for their dignities or dollars, Be millionnaires or magnates, or senators or scholars.

I will puff my mild Havana, and I quietly will query, Whether, when the strife is over, and the combatants are weary, Their gains will be more brilliant than its faint expiring flashes, Or more solid than this panful of its dead and sober ashes.




The pipe came safe, and welcome, too, As anything must be from you; A meerschaum pure, 'twould float as light As she the girls called Amphitrite. Mixture divine of foam and clay, From both it stole the best away: Its foam is such as crowns the glow Of beakers brimmed by Veuve Clicquot; Its clay is but congested lymph Jove chose to make some choicer nymph; And here combined,—why, this must be The birth of some enchanted sea, Shaped to immortal form, the type And very Venus of a pipe.

When high I heap it with the weed From Lethe wharf, whose potent seed Nicotia, big from Bacchus, bore And cast upon Virginia's shore, I'll think,—So fill the fairer bowl And wise alembic of thy soul, With herbs far-sought that shall distil, Not fumes to slacken thought and will, But bracing essences that nerve To wait, to dare, to strive, to serve.

When curls the smoke in eddies soft, And hangs a shifting dream aloft, That gives and takes, though chance-designed, The impress of the dreamer's mind, I'll think,—So let the vapors bred By passion, in the heart or head, Pass off and upward into space, Waving farewells of tenderest grace, Remembered in some happier time, To blend their beauty with my rhyme.

While slowly o'er its candid bowl The color deepens (as the soul That burns in mortals leaves its trace Of bale or beauty on the face), I'll think,—So let the essence rare Of years consuming make me fair; So, 'gainst the ills of life profuse, Steep me in some narcotic juice; And if my soul must part with all That whiteness which we greenness call, Smooth back, O Fortune, half thy frown, And make me beautifully brown!

Dream-forger, I refill thy cup With reverie's wasteful pittance up, And while the fire burns slow away, Hiding itself in ashes gray, I'll think,—As inward Youth retreats, Compelled to spare his wasting heats, When Life's Ash-Wednesday comes about, And my head's gray with fires burnt out, While stays one spark to light the eye, With the last flash of memory, 'Twill leap to welcome C.F.B., Who sent my favorite pipe to me.



When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When friends are fled, thy presence charms me. If thou art full, though purse be bare, I smoke, and cast away all care!

German Smoking Song.


Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey room; From the fading past evoke Forms that breathe of summer's bloom.

Bashful Will and rosy Nell— Ah, I watch them now at play By the mossy wayside well As I did twelve years to-day.

We were younger then, my pipe: You are dingy now and worn; And my fruit is more than ripe, And my fields are brown and shorn.

Nell has merry eyes of blue, And is timid, pure, and mild; Will is fair and brave and true, And a neighboring farmer's child.

Little maid is busy, too, Making rare, fictitious pies, Just as any wife would do, Looking, meanwhile, wondrous wise.

Drawing water from the well, Delving sand upon the hill, Going here and there for Nell,— That's her helpmate, willing Will.

Yonder, in the waning light, Hand in hand the truants come, Nell so fearful lest the night Should fall around her far from home.

Fading, fading, skyward flies This joy-picture you have limned; Pipe of mine, the quiet skies Of my life you leave undimmed.

Nell and Will are lovers now; There they stray in dying light. That's a kiss! Ah, well, somehow Nell's no more afraid at night!




Not like clouds that cap the mountains, Not like mists that mask the sea, Not like vapors round the fountains,— Soft and clear and warm are we.

Hear the tempest, how its minions Tear the clouds and heap the snows! No storm-rage is in our pinions; Who knows us, 'tis peace he knows.

Soaring from the burning censers, Stealing forth through all the air, Hovering as the mild dispensers Over you of blisses rare,

Softly float we, softly blend we, Tinted from the deep blue sky, Scented from the myrrh-lands, bend we Downward to you ere we die.

Ease we bring, and airy fancies, Sober thoughts with visions gay, Peace profound with daring glances Through the clouds to endless day.

Not like clouds that cap the mountains, Not like mists that mask the sea, Not like vapors round the fountains,— Soft and clear and warm are we.

L.T.A., in London Society.


We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he, from his meerschaum's glossy brown, With a ring of smoke made his king a crown.

The cherry stem, with its amber tip, Thoughtfully rested on his lip, As the goblet's rim from which heroes sip.

And, looking out through the early green, He called on his patron saint, I ween,— That misty maiden, Saint Nicotine,—

While ever rested that crown so fair, Poised in the warm and pulseless air, On the carven chessman's ivory hair.

Dreamily wandered the game along, Quietly moving at even-song, While the striving kings stood firm and strong,

Until that one which of late was crowned Flinched from a knight's determined bound, And in sullen majesty left the ground,

Reeling back; and it came to pass That, waiting to mutter no funeral mass, A bishop had dealt him the coup de grace.

And so, as we sat, we reasoned still Of fate and of fortune, of human will, And what are the purposes men fulfil.

For we see at last, when the truth arrives, The moves on the chess-board of our lives,— That fields may be lost, though the king survives.

Not always he whom the world reveres Merits its honor or wins its cheers, Standing the best at the end of the years.

Not always he who has lost the fight Rises again with the coming light, Battles anew for his ancient right.



Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find a jar the gates of Paradise.

Copes Tobacco Plant.


Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the goddess through a yard of clay; And soon you'll own she is the fairest maid To stifle pain, and drive old Care away. Nor deem it waste; what though to ash she burns, If for your outlay you get good returns!


When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs each unstrung limb, 'Tis sweet through smoke-puffs, wreathing slow, To watch the firelight flash or glow. As each soft cloud floats up on high, Some worry takes its wings to fly; And Fancy dances with the flame, Who lay so labor-crammed and lame; While the spent Will, the slack Desire, Re-kindle at the dying fire, And burn to meet the morrow's sun With all its day's work to be done.

The tedious tangle of the Law, Your work ne'er done without some flaw; Those ghastly streets that drive one mad, With children joyless, elders sad, Young men unmanly, girls going by Bold-voiced, with eyes unmaidenly; Christ dead two thousand years agone, And kingdom come still all unwon; Your own slack self that will not rise Whole-hearted for the great emprise,— Well, all these dark thoughts of the day As thin smoke's shadow drift away.

And all those magic mists unclose, And a girl's face amid them grows,— The very look she's wont to wear, The wild rose blossoms in her hair, The wondrous depths of her pure eyes, The maiden soul that 'neath them lies, That fears to meet, yet will not fly, Your stranger spirit drawing nigh. What if our times seem sliding down? She lives, creation's flower and crown. What if your way seems dull and long? Each tiny triumph over wrong, Each effort up through sloth and fear, And she and you are brought more near. So rapping out these ashes light,— "My pipe, you've served me well to-night."

London Spectator.


O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, What joy is in thy smooth, round bowl, As black as coal!

So sweetly wed To thy blanched, gradual thread, Like Desdemona to the Moor, Thou pleasure's core.

What woman's lip Could ever give, like thy red tip, Such unremitting store of bliss, Or such a kiss?

Oh, let me toy, Ixion-like, with cloudy joy; Thy stem with a most gentle slant I eye askant!

Unseen, unheard, Thy dreamy nectar is transferred, The while serenity astride Thy neck doth ride.

A burly cloud Doth now thy outward beauties shroud: And now a film doth upward creep, Cuddling the cheek.

And now a ring, A mimic silver quoit, takes wing; Another and another mount on high, Then spread and die.

They say in story That good men have a crown of glory; O beautiful and good, behold The crowns unfold!

How did they live? What pleasure could the Old World give That ancient miserable lot When thou wert not?

Oh, woe betide! My oldest, dearest friend hath died,— Died in my hand quite unaware, Oh, Baccy rare!



Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with alcohol moisten his thrapple, Only give me, I pray, a good pipe of soft clay, Nicely tapered and thin in the stapple; And I shall puff, puff, let who will say, "Enough!" No luxury else I'm in lack o', No malice I hoard 'gainst queen, prince, duke, or lord, While I pull at my pipe of tobacco.

When I feel the hot strife of the battle of life, And the prospect is aught but enticin', Mayhap some real ill, like a protested bill, Dims the sunshine that tinged the horizon: Only let me puff, puff,—be they ever so rough, All the sorrows of life I lose track o', The mists disappear, and the vista is clear, With a soothing mild pipe of tobacco.

And when joy after pain, like the sun after rain, Stills the waters, long turbid and troubled, That life's current may flow with a ruddier glow, And the sense of enjoyment be doubled,— Oh! let me puff, puff, till I feel quantum suff., Such luxury still I'm in lack o'; Be joy ever so sweet, it would be incomplete, Without a good pipe of tobacco.

Should my recreant muse—sometimes apt to refuse The guidance of bit and of bridle— Still blankly demur, spite of whip and spur, Unimpassioned, inconstant, or idle; Only let me puff, puff, till the brain cries, "Enough!" Such excitement is all I'm in lack o', And the poetic vein soon to fancy gives rein, Inspired by a pipe of tobacco.

And when, with one accord, round the jovial board, In friendship our bosoms are glowing, While with toast and with song we the evening prolong, And with nectar the goblets are flowing; Still let us puff, puff,—be life smooth, be it rough, Such enjoyment we're ever in lack o'; The more peace and good-will will abound as we fill A jolly good pipe of tobacco.




Let no cold marble o'er my body rise— But only earth above, and sunny skies. Thus would I lowly lie in peaceful rest, Nursing the Herb Divine from out my breast. Green let it grow above this clay of mine, Deriving strength from strength that I resign. So in the days to come, when I'm beyond This fickle life, will come my lovers fond, And gazing on the plant, their grief restrain In whispering, "Lo! dear Anna blooms again!"



I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beechen tree, With its leaves by the autumn made ripe; While they cling to the stems like old age unto life, I dream of the days when I'll rest from this strife, And in peace smoke my brierwood pipe.

O my brierwood pipe!—of bright fancy the twin, What a medley of forms you create; Every puff of white smoke seems a vision as fair As the poet's bright dream, and like dreams fades in air, While the dreamer dreams on of his fate.

The fleecy white clouds that now float in the sky, Form the visions I love most to see; Fairy shapes that I saw in my boyhood's first dreams Seem to beckon me on, while beyond them there gleams A bright future, in waiting for me.

O my brierwood pipe! I ne'er loved thee as now, As that fair form and face steal above; See, she beckons me on to where roses are spread, And she points to my fancy the bright land ahead, Where the winds whisper nothing but love.

Oh, answer, my pipe, shall my dream be as fair When it changes to dreams of the past? When autumn's chill winds make this leaf look as sere As the leaves on the beech-tree that shelters me here, Will the tree's heart be chilled by the blast?

While musing, around me has gathered a heap Of the leaflets, all dying and dead; And I see in my reverie plainly revealed The slope of life's hill, in my boyhood concealed By the forms that fair fancy had bred.

While I sit on the banks of the beautiful stream, Picking roses that bloom by its side, I know that the shallop will certainly come, When the roses are withered, to carry me home, And that life will go out with the tide.

O my brierwood pipe! may the heart be as light When memory supplanteth the dream; When the sun has gone down may the sunbeam remain, And life's roses, though dead, all their fragrance retain, Till they catch at Eternity's gleam.



Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the smoke-cloud infra dig., In which you could not see his wig, Involved in clouds of smoke.

Quaint Lamb his wit would oft enshroud In smoke-igniting laughter loud, Like summer thunder in the cloud,— The lightning in the smoke.

Dean Swift "died at the top;" his head Had drifting clouds when wit had fled: Dull care lurked in his brain, instead Of blowing out in smoke.

And Cowper mild—no smoker he, Bard of the sofa and bohea— Complained his "dear friend Bull" not free From lowering Stygian smoke.

Clouds in his non-inebriate nob Were doomed the tea tables to rob, Inflicting many a painful throb On one who could not smoke!

Smoke on! it is the steam of life, The smoother of the waves of strife; Where chimneys smoke, or scolds the wife, The counteraction—smoke.

We ride and work and weave by steam, Till ages past seem like a dream In a new world whose dawning beam Is redolent of smoke.

We travel like a comet wild On which some distant sun had smiled, And from his orbit thus beguiled With a long tail of smoke.

The clouds arise from smoking seas, And give, with each conveying breeze, Life to the "weed," and herbs, and trees, Which turn again to smoke.

All nations smoke! Havana's pother Smokes friendly with its Broseley brother: The world's one end puffs to the other, In amicable smoke.

When plague and pestilence go forth, And to diseases dire give birth, Which walk in darkness through the earth, I clothe myself in smoke.

I smoke through desolating years, Tabooed from fever, void of fears, And when some dreaded pest appears, I call in Doctor Smoke.

Go, reader! perfume ladies' hair And scent the ringlets of the fair With eau Cologne and odors rare Aloof from healthy smoke.

Go babble at the ball and rout, And smirk with high-born dames who doubt: Thy flames are quenched, thy fires are out, And sinking into smoke.

"Better," said Johnson, great in name, "It were, when poets droop in fame, To see smoke brighten into flame, Than flames sink into smoke."

SELIM: Eclectic Magazine.


A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and take her ease, She loves to smoke a cigarette;

To dream in silken hammockette, And sing and swing beneath the trees, A pretty, piquant, pouting pet.

Her Christian name is Violet; Her eyes are blue as summer skies; She loves to smoke a cigarette.

As calm as babe in bassinette, She swingeth in the summer breeze, A pretty, piquant, pouting pet.

She ponders o'er a novelette; Her parasol is Japanese; She loves to smoke a cigarette.

She loves a fume without a fret; Her frills are white, her frock cerise,— A pretty, pouting, piquant pet.

She almost goes to sleep, and yet, Half-lulled by booming honey-bees, She loves to smoke a cigarette.

A winsome, clever, cool coquette, Who flouts all Grundian decrees,— pretty, pouting, piquant pet, That loves to smoke a cigarette.

Harper's Bazaar.


It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds may be As fragrant as The fairest flower With some sweet memory.




When the year is young, what sweets are flung By the violets, hiding, dim, And the lilac that sways her censers high, Whilst the skylark chants a hymn! How sweet is the scent of the daffodil bloom, When blithe spring decks each spray, And the flowering thorn sheds rare perfume Through the beautiful month of May! What a dainty pet is the mignonette, Whose sweets wide scattered are! But sweeter to me than all these yet Is the scent of a prime cigar!

Delicious airs waft the fields of June, When the beans are all in flower; The woodruff is fragrant in the hedge, And the woodbine in the bower. Sweet eglantine doth her garlands twine For the blithe hours as they run, And balmily sighs the meadow-sweet, That is all in love with the sun, Whilst new-mown hay o'er the hedgerows gay Flings odorous airs afar; Yet sweeter than these on the passing breeze Is the scent of a prime cigar.

When all the beauties of Flora's court Smile on the gay parterre, What glorious color, what exquisite form, And dainty scents are there! They bask in the beam, and bend by the stream, Like beautiful nymphs at play, Holding dew-pearls up in each nectar cup To the glorious God of Day. Oh, their lives are sweet, but all too brief, And death doth their sweetness mar; But fragrance fine is forever thine, My well-beloved cigar!



Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, Whom I have smoked these fourteen years and more, My best companion, faithful to the end, Faithful to death through all thy fiery core,

How shall I sing thy praises, or proclaim The generous virtues which I've found in thee? I know thou carest not a whit for fame, And hast no thought but how to comfort me,

And serve my needs, and humor every mood; But love and friendship do my heart constrain To give thee all I can for much of good Which thou hast rendered me in joy and pain.

Say, then, old honest meerschaum! shall I weave Thy history together with my own? Of late I never see thee but I grieve For him whose gift thou wert—forever gone!

Gone to his grave amidst the vines of France, He, all so good, so beautiful, and wise; And this dear giver doth thyself enhance, And makes thee doubly precious in mine eyes.

For he was one of Nature's rarest men,— Poet and preacher, lover of his kind, True-hearted man of God, whose like again In this world's journey I may never find.

I know not if the shadow of his soul, Or the divine effulgence of his heart, Has through thy veins in mystic silence stole; But thou to me dost seem of him a part.

His hands have touched thee, and his lips have drawn, As mine, full many an inspiring cloud From thy great burning heart, at night and morn; And thou art here, whilst he lies in his shroud!

And here am I, his friend and thine, old pipe! And he has often sat my chair beside, As he was wont to sit in living type, Of many companies the flower and pride,—

Sat by my side, and talked to me the while, Invisible to every eye save mine, And smiled upon me as he used to smile When we three sat o'er our good cups of wine.

Ah, happy days, when the old Chapel House, Of the old Forest Chapel, rang with mirth, And the great joy of our divine carouse, As we hobnobbed it by the blazing hearth!

We never more, old pipe, shall see those days, Whose memories lie like pictures in my mind; But thou and I will go the self-same ways, E'en though we leave all other friends behind.

And for thy sake, and for my own, and his, We will be one, as we have ever been, Thou dear old friend, with thy most honest phiz, And no new faces come our loves between.


Thou hast thy separate virtues, honest pipe! Apart from all the memory of friends: For thou art mellow, old, and black, and ripe; And the good weed that in its smoke ascends

From thy rare bowl doth scent the liberal air With incense richer than the woods of Ind. E'en to the barren palate of despair (Inhaled through cedar tubes from glorious Scinde!)

It hath a charm would quicken into life, And make the heart gush out in streams of love, And the earth, dead before, with beauty rife, And full of flowers as heaven of stars above.

It is thy virtue and peculiar gift, Thou sooty wizard of the potent weed; No other pipe can thus the soul uplift, Or such rare fancies and high musings breed.

I've tried full many of thy kith and kind, Dug from thy native Asiatic clay, Fashioned by cunning hand and curious mind Into all shapes and features, grave and gay,—

Black niggers' heads with their white-livered eyes Glaring in fiery horror through the smoke, And monstrous dragons stained with bloody dyes, And comelier forms; but all save thee I broke.

For though, like thee, each pipe was black and old, They were not wiser for their many years, Nor knew thy sorcery though set in gold, Nor had thy tropic taste,—these proud compeers!

Like great John Paul, who would have loved thee well, Thou art the "only one" of all thy race; Nor shall another comrade near thee dwell, Old King of pipes! my study's pride and grace!


Thus have I made "assurance doubly sure," And sealed it twice, that thou shalt reign alone! And as the dainty bee doth search for pure, Sweet honey till his laden thighs do groan

With their sweet burden, tasting nothing foul, So thou of best tobacco shalt be filled; And when the starry midnight wakes the owl, And the lorn nightingale her song has trilled,

I, with my lamp and books, as is my wont, Will give thee of the choicest of all climes,— Black Cavendish, full-flavored, full of juice, Pale Turkish, famed through all the Osman times,

Dark Latakia, Syrian, Persia's pride, And sweet Virginian, sweeter than them all! Oh, rich bouquet of plants! fit for a bride Who, blushing, waits the happy bridegroom's call!

And these shall be thy food, thy dainty food, And we together will their luxury share, Voluptuous tumults stealing through the blood, Voluptuous visions filling all the air!

I will not thee profane with impious shag, Nor poison thee with nigger-head and twist, Nor with Kentucky, though the planters brag That it hath virtues all the rest have missed.

These are for porters, loafers, and the scum, Who have no sense for the diviner weeds, Who drink their muddy beer and muddier rum, Insatiate, like dogs in all their greeds.

But not for thee nor me these things obscene; We have a higher pleasure, purer taste. My draughts have been with thee of hippocrene, And our delights intelligent and chaste.


Intelligent and chaste since we have held Commune together on the world's highway; No Falstaff failings have my mind impelled To do misdeeds of sack by night or day;

But we have ever erred on virtue's side— At least we should have done—but woe is me! I fear in this my statement I have lied, For ghosts, like moonlight shadows on the sea,

Crowd thick around me from the shadowy past,— Ghosts of old memories reeling drunk with wine! And boon companions, Lysius-like, and vast In their proportions as the god divine.

I do confess my sins, and here implore The aid of "Rare Old Ben" and other ghosts That I may sin again, but rarely more, Responsive only unto royal toasts.

For, save these sins, I am a saintly man, And live like other saints on prayer and praise, My long face longer, if life be a span, Than any two lives in these saintly days.

So let me smoke and drink and do good deeds, And boast the doing like a Pharisee; Am I not holy if I love the creeds, Even though my drinking sins choke up the sea?

GEORGE S. PHILLIPS (JANUARY SEARLE): The Gypsies of the Dane's Dike.


Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer of dulness, parent of mirth, Come in the sad hour, come in the gay, Appear in the night, or in the day,— Still thou art welcome as June's blooming rose, Joy of the palate, delight of the nose.

Weed of the green field, weed of the wild, Fostered in freedom, America's child, Come in Virginia, come in Havana, Friend of the universe, sweeter than manna,— Still thou art welcome, rich, fragrant, and ripe, Pride of the tube-case, delight of the pipe.

Weed of the savage, weed of each pole, Comforting, soothing, philosophy's soul, Come in the snuff-box, come in cigar, In Strasburgh and King's, come from afar,— Still thou art welcome, the purest, the best, Joy of earth's millions, forever carest.



Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwelt; Neither, alas! of love so true The bitter pang had felt.

But age comes on, they say, apace, To warn us of our death, And wrinkles mar the fairest face,— At last it stops our breath.

One of these dames tormented sore With that curst pang, toothache, Was at a loss for such a bore What remedy to take.

"I've heard," thought she, "this ill to cure, A pipe is good, they say. Well then, tobacco I'll endure, And smoke the pain away."

The pipe was lit, the tooth soon well, And she retired to rest, When then the other ancient belle Her spinster maid addressed,—

"Let me request a favor, pray"— "I'll do it if I can"— "Oh! well, then, love, smoke every day, You smell so like a man!"




Luck, my dear Norton, still makes shifts, To mix a mortal with her gifts, Which he may find who duly sifts.

Sweets to the sweet,—behold the clue! Why not, then, new things to the gnu, And trews to Highland clansmen true?

'Twas thus your kindly thought decreed These weeds to one who is indeed, And feels himself, a very weed,—

A weed from which, when bruised and shent, Though some faint perfume may be rent, Yet oftener much without a cent.

But imp, O Muse, a stronger wing Mount, leaving self below, and sing What thoughts these Cuban exiles bring!

He that knows aught of mythic lore Knows how god Bacchus wandered o'er The earth, and what strange names he bore.

The Bishop of Avranches supposes That all these large and varying doses Of fable mean naught else than Moses;

But waiving doubts, we surely know He taught mankind to plough and sow, And from the Tigris to the Po

Planted the vine; but of his visit To this our hemisphere, why is it We have no statement more explicit?

He gave to us a leaf divine More grateful to the serious Nine Than fierce inspirings of the vine.

And that he loved it more, this proved,— He gave his name to what he loved, Distorted now, but not removed.

Tobacco, sacred herb, though lowly, Baffles old Time, the tyrant, wholly, And makes him turn his hour-glass slowly;

Nay, makes as 'twere of every glass six, Whereby we beat the heathen classics With their weak Chians and their Massics.

These gave his glass a quicker twist, And flew the hours like driving mist, While Horace drank and Lesbia kissed.

How are we gainers when all's done, If Life's swift clepsydra have run With wine for water? 'Tis all one.

But this rare plant delays the stream (At least if things are what they seem) Through long eternities of dream.

What notes the antique Muse had known Had she, instead of oat-straws, blown Our wiser pipes of clay or stone!

Rash song, forbear! Thou canst not hope, Untutored as thou art, to cope With themes of such an epic scope.

Enough if thou give thanks to him Who sent these leaves (forgive the whim) Plucked from the dream-tree's sunniest limb.

My gratitude feels no eclipse, For I, whate'er my other slips, Shall have his kindness on my lips.

The prayers of Christian, Turk, and Jew Have one sound up there in the blue, And one smell all their incense, too.

Perhaps that smoke with incense ranks Which curls from 'mid life's jars and clanks, Graceful with happiness and thanks.

I pledge him, therefore, in a puff,— rather frailish kind of stuff, But still professional enough.

Hock-cups breed hiccups; let us feel The god along our senses steel More nobly and without his reel.

Each temperately 'baccy plenus, May no grim fate of doubtful genus E'er blow the smallest cloud between us.

And as his gift I shall devote To fire, and o'er their ashes gloat,— Let him do likewise with this note.


[From "The Letters of James Russell Lowell." Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers.]


Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And thus produce so rich a Margarite! It is the fountain whence all pleasure springs, A potion for imperial and mighty kings.

He that is master of so rich a store May laugh at Croesus and esteem him poor; And with his smoky sceptre in his fist, Securely flout the toiling alchemist, Who daily labors with a vain expense In distillations of the quintessence, Not knowing that this golden herb alone Is the philosopher's admired stone.

It is a favor which the gods doth please, If they do feed on smoke, as Lucian says. Therefore the cause that the bright sun doth rest At the low point of the declining west— When his oft-wearied horses breathless pant— Is to refresh himself with this sweet plant, Which wanton Thetis from the west doth bring, To joy her love after his toilsome ring: For 'tis a cordial for an inward smart, As is dictamnum to the wounded hart. It is the sponge that wipes out all our woe; 'Tis like the thorn that doth on Pelion grow, With which whoe'er his frosty limbs anoints, Shall feel no cold in fat or flesh or joints. 'Tis like the river, which whoe'er doth taste Forgets his present griefs and sorrows past. Music, which makes grim thoughts retire, And for a while cease their tormenting fire,— Music, which forces beasts to stand and gaze, And fills their senseless spirits with amaze,— Compared to this is like delicious strings, Which sound but harshly while Apollo sings. The train with this infumed, all quarrel ends, And fiercest foemen turn to faithful friends; The man that shall this smoky magic prove, Will need no philtres to obtain his love.

Yet the sweet simple, by misordered use, Death or some dangerous sickness may produce. Should we not for our sustentation eat Because a surfeit comes from too much meat? So our fair plant—that doth as needful stand As heaven, or fire, or air, or sea, or land; As moon, or stars that rule the gloomy night, Or sacred friendship, or the sunny light— Her treasured virtue in herself enrolls, And leaves the evil to vainglorious souls. And yet, who dies with this celestial breath Shall live immortal in a joyful death. All goods, all pleasures it in one can link— 'Tis physic, clothing, music, meat, and drink.

Gods would have revell'd at their feasts of mirth With this pure distillation of the earth; The marrow of the world, star of the West, The pearl whereby this lower orb is blest; The joy of mortals, umpire of all strife, Delight of nature, mithridate of life; The daintiest dish of a delicious feast, By taking which man differs from a beast.

ANONYMOUS: Time, James I.


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 bowle, And may our blessings find him; That he not miss some share of blisse Who left soe much behind him.



Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth life's rugged way, To give a happiness unknown To those—who let a pipe alone; Thy tube can best the vapors chase, By raising—others in their place; Can give the face staid Wisdom's air, And teach the lips—to ope with care; 'Tis hence thou art the truest friend (Where least is said there's least to mend), And he who ventures many a joke Had better oft be still and smoke.

Whatever giddy foplings think, Thou giv'st the highest zest to drink. When fragrant clouds thy fumes exhale, And hover round the nut-brown ale, Who thinks of claret or champagne? E'en burgundy were pour'd in vain.

'Tis not in city smoke alone, Midst fogs and glooms thy charms are known. With thee, at morn, the rustic swain Tracks o'er the snow-besprinkled plain, To seek some neighb'ring copse's side, And rob the woodlands of their pride: With thee, companion of his toil, His active spirits ne'er recoil; Though hard his daily task assign'd, He bears it with an equal mind.

The fisher 'board some little bark, When all around is drear and dark, With shortened pipe beguiles the hour, Though bleak the wind and cold the show'r, Nor thinks the morn's approach too slow, Regardless of what tempests blow. Midst hills of sand, midst ditches, dikes, Midst cannons, muskets, halberts, pikes; With thee, as still, Mynheer can stay, As Neddy 'twixt two wisps of hay; Heedless of Britain and of France, Smokes on—and looks to the main chance.

And sure the solace thou canst give Must make thy fame unrivalled live, So long as men can temper clay (For as thou art, e'en so are they), The sun mature the Indian weed, And rolling years fresh sorrows breed.

From The Meteors, London.


Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the truest type, When that too devoted valet Quenched your first-recorded pipe, Were you pondering the opinion, As you watched the airy coil, That the virtue of Virginia Might be bred in British soil?

You transplanted the potato, 'Twas a more enduring gift Than the wisdom of a Plato To our poverty and thrift. That respected root has flourished Nobly for a nation's need, But our brightest dreams are nourished Ever on a foreign weed.

From the deepest meditation Of the philosophic scribe, From the poet's inspiration, For the cynic's polished gibe, We invoke narcotic nurses In their jargon from afar, I indite these modest verses On a polyglot cigar.

Leaf that lulls a Turkish Aga May a scholar's soul renew, Fancy spring from Larranaga, History from honey-dew. When the teacher and the tyro Spirit-manna fondly seek, 'Tis the cigarette from Cairo, Or a compound from the Greek.

But no British-born aroma Is fit incense to the Queen, Nature gives her best diploma To the alien nicotine. We are doomed to her ill-favor, For the plant that's native grown Has a patriotic flavor Too exclusively our own.

O my country, could your smoker Boast your "shag," or even "twist," Every man were mediocre Save the blest tobacconist! He will point immortal morals, Make all common praises mute, Who shall win our grateful laurels With a national cheroot.

The St. James Gazette.


Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a case; 'Twas a jolly cosy place, I surmise;

And a zealous subject blew On your cheeks, until they grew To the fascinating hue Of her eyes.

Near a rusty-hilted sword, Now upon my mantel-board, Where my curios are stored, You recline.

You were pleasant company when By the scribbling of her pen I was sent the ways of men To repine.

Tell me truly (you were there When she ceased that debonair Correspondence and affair) I suppose

That she laughed and smiled all day; Or did gentle tear-drops stray Down her charming retroussee Little nose?

Where the sunbeams, coyly still, Fall upon the mantel-sill, You perpetually will Silence woo;

And I fear that she herself, By the little chubby elf. Will be laid upon the shelf Just as you.



"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those who always smoked—now smoke the more."


To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankered care bring radiant smiles, Best gift of Love to mortals given! At once the bud and bliss of Heaven! Crownless are kings uncrowned by thee; Content the serf in thy sweet liberty, O charm of life! O foe to misery!




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 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 the aroma, And I were simply smoke, We'd skyward fly together, As light as any feather; And flying high as Homer, His gray old ghost we'd choke; If you were the aroma, And I were simply smoke.

From Cope's Tobacco Plant.


In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of olden days uprise, And in his dreamers revery They haunt the smoker's brain, and he Breathes for the past regretful sighs.

Mem'ries of maids, with azure eyes, In dewy dells, 'neath June's soft skies, Faces that more he'll only see In wreaths of smoke.

Eheu, eheu! how fast Time flies,— How youth-time passion droops and dies, And all the countless visions flee! How worn would all those faces be, Were they not swathed in soft disguise In wreaths of smoke!



Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brier brown, And watch the ashes settle down In lambent flashes; While thro' the blue, thick, curling haze, 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 flashes 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 A cloud 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.



Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose a wife. Tube, thy color let me find, In her skin, and in her mind. Let her have a shape as fine; Let her breath be 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 low, Send them where they ought to go; When to study I incline, Let her aid be such as thine; Such as thine the charming power In the vacant social hour. Let her live to give delight, Ever warm and ever bright; Let her deeds, whene'er she dies, Mount as incense to the skies.

Gentleman's Magazine.


When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty, Three loves were scattered in my way— And three at once are plenty. Three hearts, if offered with a grace, One thinks not of refusing; The task in this especial case Was only that of choosing. I knew not which to make my pet,— My pipe, cigar, or cigarette.

To cheer my night or glad my day My pipe was ever willing; The meerschaum or the lowly clay Alike repaid the filling. Grown men delight in blowing clouds, As boys in blowing bubbles, Our cares to puff away in crowds And vanish all our troubles. My pipe I nearly made my pet, Above cigar or cigarette.

A tiny paper, tightly rolled About some Latakia, Contains within its magic fold A mighty panacea. Some thought of sorrow or of strife At ev'ry whiff will vanish; And all the scenery of life Turn picturesquely Spanish. But still I could not quite forget Cigar and pipe for cigarette.

To yield an after-dinner puff O'er demi-tasse and brandy, No cigarettes are strong enough, No pipes are ever handy. However fine may be the feed, It only moves my laughter Unless a dry delicious weed Appears a little after. A prime cigar I firmly set Above a pipe or cigarette.

But after all I try in vain To fetter my opinion; Since each upon my giddy brain Has boasted a dominion. Comparisons I'll not provoke, Lest all should be offended. Let this discussion end in smoke As many more have ended. And each I'll make a special pet; My pipe, cigar, and cigarette.



When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just the very one you might suppose. Love keep a shop?—his trade, oh! quickly name! A dealer in tobacco—fie, for shame! No less than true, and set aside all joke, From oldest time he ever dealt in smoke; Than smoke, no other thing he sold, or made; Smoke all the substance of his stock in trade; His capital all smoke, smoke all his store, 'Twas nothing else; but lovers ask no more— And thousands enter daily at his door! Hence it was ever, and it e'er will be The trade most suited to his faculty: Fed by the vapors of their heart's desire, No other food his votaries require; For that they seek—the favor of the fair— Is unsubstantial as the smoke and air.

JACOB CATS: Moral Emblems.


Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds around disperse; Clouds to gather, thick as night, Is the smoker's universe.

From the German of Bauernfeld.


Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like swine; But he's a frugal man indeed That with a leaf can dine, And needs no napkin for his hands, His fingers' ends to wipe, But keeps his kitchen in a box, And roast meat in a pipe.

SAMUEL ROWLANDS: Knave of Clubs (1611).



To my sweet cigarette I am singing This joyous and bright bacca-role; Just now to my lips she was clinging, Her spirit was soothing my soul. With figure so slender and dapper I feel the soft touch of it yet, Adorned in her dainty white wrapper, How fair is my own cigarette! 'Twere better, perhaps, that we part, love; 'Twere better, if never we'd met. Alas, you are part of my heart, love, Destructive but sweet cigarette!

Though matchless, by matches she's fired, And glows both with pleasure and pride; By her soft, balmy breath I'm inspired, And kiss and caress my new bride. E'en the clouds of her nature are joyous, Though other clouds cause us regret; From worry and care they decoy us, The clouds of a sweet cigarette. 'Twere better, etc.

The houris in paradise living Dissolve in the first love embrace, Their life to their love freely giving,— And so with my love 'tis the case; For when her life's last spark is flying, Still sweet to the end is my pet, Who helps me, although she is dying, To light up a fresh cigarette! 'Twere better, etc.


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. 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.


Smokers, who doubt or con 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.




You still persist in using, I observe with great regret, The needlessly expensive Cigarette.


You should set a good example; But you seem to quite forget That you use a thirty-dollar Vinaigrette.



Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street, And she had a smile for all. Many were the friends she'd greet With kindly nod on passing by, Who, smiling, saw her pipe awry.

Poor old lass! she loved her pipe, A constant friend it seemed to be; As she sold her apples ripe, With an apple on each knee, How she'd make the smoke-wreaths fly, As I've watched her pipe awry!

Seasons came and seasons went, Only changing Betty's store; Youngsters with her always spent Their little all and wished they'd more: Timidly with upturned eye Staring at her pipe awry.

Bet was always at her post Early morn or even late; Ginger beer or chestnut roast, Served she as she sat in state, On two bushel-baskets high; You should have seen her pipe awry!

Little care old Betty had, She quietly jogged on her way; Never did her face look sad. Although she fumed the livelong day. Guiltless seemed she of a sigh. I never saw her pipe her eye!



Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in the trees, An' the man thet knows it all, 'Spicions frost in every breeze, When a person tells hisse'f Thet the leaves look mighty thin, Then thar blows a meller breaf! Ingin summer's hyere agin.

Kind-uh smoky-lookin' blues Spins acrost the mountain-side, An' the heavy mornin' dews Greens the grass up far an' wide, Natur' raly 'pears as ef She wuz layin' off a day,— Sort-uh drorin in her breaf 'Fore she freezes up to stay.

Nary lick o' work I strike, 'Long about this time of year! I'm a sort-uh slowly like, Right when Ingin summer's here. Wife and boys kin do the work; But a man with natchel wit, Like I got, kin 'ford to shirk, Ef he has a turn for it.

Time when grapes set in to ripe, All I ast off any man Is a common co'n-cob pipe With terbacker to my han'; Then jest loose me whar the air Simmers 'crost me, wahm an' free! Promised lands ull find me thar; Wings ull fahly sprout on me!

I'm a loungin' 'round on thrones, Bossin' worlds f'om shore to shore, When I stretch my marrer-bones Jest outside the cabin door! An' the sunshine peepin' down On my old head, bald an' gray, 'Pears right like the gilted crown, I expect to w'ar some day.




As oft I fill my faithful pipe, To while away the moments glad, With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe, My mind perceives an image sad, So that I can but clearly see How very like it is to me.

My pipe is made of earth and clay, From which my mortal part is wrought; I, too, must turn to earth some day. It often falls, as quick as thought, And breaks in two,—puts out its flame; My fate, alas! is but the same!

My pipe I color not, nor paint; White it remains, and hence 'tis true That, when in Death's cold arms I faint, My lips shall wear the ashen hue; And as it blackens day by day, So black the grave shall turn my clay!

And when the pipe is put alight The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes, And soon dissolves in sunshine bright, And but the whitened ash remains. 'Tis so man's glory crumble must, E'en as his body, into dust!

How oft the filler is mislaid; And, rather than to seek in vain, I use my finger in its stead, And fancy as I feel the pain, If coals can burn to such degree, How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!

So in tobacco oft I find, Lessons of such instructive type; And hence with calm, contented mind I live, and smoke my faithful pipe In reverence where'er I roam,— On land, on water, and at home.


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

In after years the passing sons of men Looked for those lotus blossoms all in vain, Through every hillside, glade, and glen And e'en the isles of many a main; Yet through the centuries some doom, Forbade them see the lotus bloom.

The Old World wearied of the long pursuit, And called the sacred leaf a poet's theme, When lo! the New World, rich in flower and fruit, Revealed the lotus, lovelier than the dream That races of the long past days did haunt,— The green-leaved, amber-tipped tobacco plant.



What is it comes through the deepening dusk,— Something sweeter than jasmine scent, Sweeter than rose and violet blent, More potent in power than orange or musk? The scent of a good cigar.

I am all alone in my quiet room, And the windows are open wide and free To let in the south wind's kiss for me, While I rock in the softly gathering gloom, And that subtle fragrance steals.

Just as a loving, tender hand Will sometimes steal in yours, It softly comes through the open doors, And memory wakes at its command,— The scent of that good cigar.

And what does it say? Ah! that's for me And my heart alone to know; But that heart thrills with a sudden glow, Tears fill my eyes till I cannot see,— From the scent of that good cigar.



Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doctor's spite; Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, And lap me in delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes long, My years are sooner past! I would reply with reason strong, They're sweeter while they last.

When in the lonely evening hour, Attended but by thee, O'er history's varied page I pore, Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as the snowy column grows, Then breaks and falls away, I trace how mighty realms thus rose, Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee earth's masters burn And smoke and fume around; And then, like thee, to ashes turn, And mingle with the ground.

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

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe, One common doom is passed; Sweet Nature's works, the swelling globe, Must all burn out at last.

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.

But though thy ashes downward go, Thy essence rolls on high; Thus, when my body lieth low, My soul shall cleave the sky.



Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knickerbocker! Boughton, had you bid me chant Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant, Had you bid me sing of Wouter, He, the onion head, the doubter! But to rhyme of this one—Mocker! Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker? Nay, but where my hand must fail, There the more shall yours avail; You shall take your brush and paint All that ring of figures quaint,— All those Rip Van Winkle jokers, All those solid-looking smokers, Pulling at their pipes of amber, In the dark-beamed Council Chamber.

Only art like yours can touch Shapes so dignified—and Dutch; Only art like yours can show How the pine logs gleam and glow, Till the firelight laughs and passes 'Twixt the tankards and the glasses, Touching with responsive graces All those grave Batavian faces, Making bland and beatific All that session soporific.

Then I come and write beneath: Boughton, he deserves the wreath; He can give us form and hue— This the Muse can never do!




They were three jolly sailors bold, Who sailed across the sea; They'd braved the storm, and stood the gale, And got to Virgin-ee.


'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,— Or p'raps a bit before,— And now these here three sailors bold Went cruising on the shore. A lurch to starboard, one to port, Now forrard, boys, go we, With a haul and a "Ho!" and a "That's your sort!" To find out Tobac-kee.

Says Jack, "This here's a rummy land." Says Tom, "Well, shiver me! The sun shines out as precious hot As ever I did see." Says Dick, "Messmates, since here we be,"— And gave his eye a wink,— "We've come to find out Tobac-kee, Which means a drop to drink."

Says Jack, says he, "The Injins think—" Says Tom, "I'll swear as they Don't think at all." Says Dick, "You're right; It ain't their nat'ral way. But I want to find out, my lads, This stuff of which they tell; For if as it ain't meant to drink, Why, it must be meant to smell."

Says Tom, says he, "To drink or smell, I don't think this here's meant." Says Jack, says he, "Blame my old eyes, If I'll believe it's scent." "Well, then," says Dick, "if that ain't square, It must be meant for meat; So come along, my jovial mates, To find what's good to eat."

They came across a great big plant, A-growing tall and true. Says Jack, says he, "I'm precious dry," And picked a leaf to chew. While Tom takes up a sun-dried bit, A-lying by the trees; He rubs it in his hands to dust And then begins to sneeze.

Another leaf picks nimble Dick, And dries it in the sun, And rolls it up all neat and tight. "My lads," says he, in fun, "I mean to cook this precious weed." And then from out his poke With burning-glass he lights the end, And quick blows up the smoke.

Says Jack, says he, "Of Paradise I've heerd some people tell." Says Tom, says he, "This here will do; Let's have another smell." Says Dick, his face all pleasant smiles, A-looking through a cloud, "It strikes me here's the cap'en bold, And now we'll all be rowed."

Up comes brave Hawkins on the beach; "Shiver my hull!" he cries, "What's these here games, my merry men?" And then, "Why, blame my eyes! Here's one as chaws, and one as snuffs, And t' other of the three Is smoking like a chimbley-pot— They've found out Tobac-kee!"

So if ever you should hear Of Raleigh, and them lies About his sarvant and his pipe And him as "Fire!" cries, You say as 'twas three sailors bold As sailed to Virgin-ee In brave old Hawkins' gallant ship Who found out Tobac-kee. A lurch to starboard, one to port, Now forrard, boys, go we, With a haul and a "Ho!" and a "That's your sort!" To find out Tobac-kee.

Cigar and Tobacco World, London.


"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the praise-worthy editorial research of Mr. Burton Forman."

So "Keats took snuff?" A few more years, When we are dead and famous—eh? Will they record our pipes and beers, And if we smoked cigars or clay? Or will the world cry "Quantum suff" To tattle such as "Keats took snuff"?

Perhaps some chronicler would wish To know what whiskey we preferred, And if we ever dined on fish, Or only took the joint and bird. Such facts are quite as worthy stuff, Good chronicler, as "Keats took snuff."

You answer: "But, if you were Keats—" Tut! never mind your buts and ifs, Of little men record their meats, Their drinks, their troubles, and their tiffs, Of the great dead there's gold enough To spare us such as "Keats took snuff."

Well, go your ways, you little folk, Who polish up the great folk's lives; Record the follies that they spoke, And paint their squabbles with their wives. Somewhere, if ever ghosts be gruff, I trust some Keats will "give you snuff."

The Globe, London.


Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a stem of reed, What care I for the weather? Though winter freeze and summer broil We rest us from our days of toil My Pipe and I together!

Like to a priest of sacred fane, I nightly light the glow again With reverence and pleasure; For through this plain and modest bowl I coax sweet mem'ry to my soul And many trippings measure!

There's comfort in each puff of smoke, Defiance to ill-fortune's stroke And happiness forever! There grows a volume full of thought And humor, than the book you bought Holds nothing half so clever!

The summer fragrance, all pent up Among the leaves, is here sent up In dreams of summer glory; And these blue clouds that slowly rise Were colored by the summer skies, And tell a summer story.

And oh! the happiest, sweetest times Come ringing all their silver chimes Of merry songs and laughter; And all that may be well and worth For Mother Future to bring forth I do imagine after.

What care I if my poor means Clad not my walls with splendid scenes And pictures by the masters; Here in the curling smoke-wreath glow Bold hills and lovely vales below, And brooks with nodding asters.

All that on earth is fair and fine, This fragrant magic makes it mine, And gives me sole dominion; And if you call me fanciful, I only take a stronger pull, And laugh at your opinion.

Let others fret and fume with care, 'Tis easy finding everywhere, But happiness is rarer; And if I find it sweet and ripe, In this tobacco and my pipe, I'll count it all the fairer.

Then give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a stem of reed, What care I for the weather? Though winter freeze, or summer broil We rest us from the days of toil, My Pipe and I together.



There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, I find, If you're kind of out of humor Or in trouble in your mind. When you're feeling awful lonesome And don't know just what to do, There's a heap of satisfaction If you smoke a pipe or two.

The ten thousand pleasant memories That are buried in your soul Are playing hide and seek with you Around that smoking bowl. These are mighty restful moments: You're at peace with all the world, And the panorama changes As the thin blue smoke is curled.

Now you cross the bridge of sorrows, Now you enter pleasant lands, And before an open doorway, You will linger to shake hands With a lithe and girlish figure That is coming through the door; Ah! you recognize the features: You have seen that face before.

You are at the dear old homestead Where you spent those happy years; You are romping with the children; You are smiling through your tears; You have fought and whipped the bully You are eight and he is ten. Oh! how rapidly we travel,— You are now a boy again.

You approach the open doorway, And before the old armchair You will stop and kiss the grandma, You will smooth the thin white hair; You will read the open Bible, For the lamp is lit, you see. It is now your hour for bed-time And you kneel at mother's knee.

Still you linger at the hearthstone; You are loath to leave the place. When an apple cut's in progress: You must wait and dance with Grace.

What's the matter with the music? Only this: The pipe is broke, And a thousand pleasant fancies Vanish promptly with the smoke.



The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a sentence at a time enough; The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, Then pause and puff, and speak, and pause again. Such often, like the tube they so admire, Important triflers! have more smoke than fire. Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys, Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.



Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manly face, As he pressed her to his bosom in a fervent, fond embrace. No cost of others' happiness found place within his thought; The weakness of life's brittle thread no dim forebodings brought.

But tenderer than the light of love, more brittle than life's thread, The shrouds that wrapped two other hearts gave up their withered dead; For, crumbling in his waistcoat, their glowing future dashed, Two excellent Havanas were very badly smashed.

London Tobacco.


When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish girl,— Mantilla, fan, coquettish curl, Languid airs and dimpled face, Calculating, fatal grace; Hear a twittering serenade Under lofty balcony played; Queen at bull-fight, naught she cares What her agile lover dares; She can love and quick forget.

Let me but my meerschaum light, I behold a bearded man, Built upon capacious plan, Sabre-slashed in war or duel, Gruff of aspect, but not cruel, Metaphysically muddled, With strong beer a little fuddled, Slow in love, and deep in books, More sentimental than he looks, Swears new friendships every night.

Let me my chibouk enkindle,— In a tent I'm quick set down With a Bedouin, lean and brown, Plotting gain of merchandise, Or perchance of robber prize; Clumsy camel load upheaving, Woman deftly carpet-weaving, Meal of dates and bread and salt, While in azure heavenly vault Throbbing stars begin to dwindle.

Glowing coal in clay dudheen Carries me to sweet Killarney, Full of hypocritic blarney,— Huts with babies, pigs, and hens Mixed together, bogs and fens, Shillalahs, praties, usquebaugh, Tenants defying hated law, Fair blue eyes with lashes black, Eyes black and blue from cudgel-thwack,— So fair, so foul, is Erin green.

My nargileh once inflamed, Quick appears a Turk with turban, Girt with guards in palace urban, Or in house by summer sea Slave-girls dancing languidly, Bow-string, sack, and bastinado, Black boats darting in the shadow; Let things happen as they please, Whether well or ill at ease, Fate alone is blessed or blamed.

With my ancient calumet I can raise a wigwam's smoke, And the copper tribe invoke,— Scalps and wampum, bows and knives, Slender maidens, greasy wives, Papoose hanging on a tree, Chieftains squatting silently, Feathers, beads, and hideous paint, Medicine-man and wooden-saint,— Forest-framed the vision set.

My cigar breeds many forms,— Planter of the rich Havana Mopping brow with sheer bandanna, Russian prince in fur arrayed, Paris fop on dress parade, London swell just after dinner, Wall Street broker—gambling sinner! Delver in Nevada mine, Scotch laird bawling "Auld Lang Syne." Thus Raleigh's weed my fancy warms.

Life's review in smoke goes past,— Fickle fortune, stubborn fate, Right discovered all too late, Beings loved and gone before, Beings loved but friends no more, Self-reproach and futile sighs, Vanity in birth that dies, Longing, heart-break, adoration,— Nothing sure in expectation Save ash-receiver at the last.



With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist from the waterfall given, Or the locks that float round beauty's throat In the whispering air of even.

Chorus. Then drown the fears of the coming years, And the dread of change before us; The way is sweet to our willing feet, With the smoke-wreaths twining o'er us.

As the light beams through the ringlets blue, Will hope beam through our sorrow, While the gathering wreath of the smoke we breathe Shuts out the fear of to-morrow.

A magic charm in the evening calm Calls thought from mem'ry's treasure; But clear and bright in the liquid light Are the smoke-called dreams of pleasure.

Then who shall chide, with boasting pride, Delights they ne'er have tasted? Oh, let them smile while we beguile The hour with joys they've wasted.

College Song.


Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, Or rather, sat, Drank beer in plenty, ate abundant food; For they to ancient customs still were true, And smoked, and smoked, because they surely knew What they were at.

William the Testy ruled New Amsterdam,— A tall man he,— Whose rule was meant by him to be no sham, But rather like the stern paternal style That sways the city now. He made the while A rough decree.

He ordered that the pipes should cease to smoke, From that day on. The people took the order as a joke; They did not think, who smoked from childhood up, That one man such delight would seek to stop, Even in fun.

But when at last it dawned upon their minds That this was meant, They closed their houses, shut their window blinds, Brought forth tobacco from their ample hoard, And to the governor's house with one accord The burghers went.

They carried chairs, and sat without a word Before his porch, And smoked, and smoked, and not a sound was heard, Till Kieft came forth to take the morning air, With speech that would have burned them then and there If words could scorch.

But they, however savagely he spoke, Made no reply. Higher and thicker rose the clouds of smoke, And Kieft, perceiving that they would be free Tried not to put in force his harsh decree, But let it die.

New York Sun.


Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes touched with fond regret, Doubt and desire her mind beset, Fondling her brother's cigarette.

Roses with dewy diamonds set, Drooped o'er the window's parapet; With grace she turned a match to get, And lit her brother's cigarette.

Her puffs of smoky violet Twined in fantastic silhouette; She blushed, laughed, coughed a little, yet, She smoked her brother's cigarette.

Her eyes with briny tears were wet, Her bang grew limp beneath its net, Her brow was gemmed with beaded sweat, And to her bed she went, you bet.



I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to do, When I think about them days we used to spend A hoein' out tobacker in th' clearin'—me an' you— An' a wishin' that the day was at an end. For the dewdrops was a sparklin' on the beeches' tender leaves As we started out a workin' in the morn; An' th' noonday sun was sendin' down a shower of burnin' sheaves When we heard the welcome-soundin' dinner-horn. An' th' shadders round us gathered in a sort of ghostly batch, 'Fore we started home from workin' in that ol' tobacker patch.

I'm a feelin' mighty lonesome, as I look aroun' to-day, For I see th' change that's taken place since then. All th' hills is brown and faded, for th' woods is cleared away; You an' me has changed from ragged boys to men; You are livin' in th' city that we ust to dream about; I am still a dwellin' here upon the place, But my form is bent an' feeble, which was once so straight and stout, An' there's most a thousand wrinkles on my face. You have made a mint of money; I, perhaps have been your match, But we both enjoyed life better in that ol' tobacker patch.



I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, and sound wine,— The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno's breath the claret warm, The sherry of an ancient brand. No Persian pomp, you understand,— A soup, a fish, two meats, and then A salad fit for aldermen (When aldermen, alas the days! Were really worth their mayonnaise); A dish of grapes whose clusters won Their bronze in Carolinian sun; Next, cheese—for you the Neufchatel, A bit of Cheshire likes me well; Cafe au lait or coffee black, With Kirsch or Kuemmel or cognac (The German band in Irving Place By this time purple in the face); Cigars and pipes. These being through, Friends shall drop in, a very few— Shakespeare and Milton, and no more. When these are guests I bolt the door, With "Not at home" to any one Excepting Alfred Tennyson.



There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the quivering light of a star, In the flash of a silvery rill, Yet to me thou art lovelier far, My Meerschaum!

There's a love in her witching dark eye, There's a love in her tresses at play, Yet her love would be worth not a sigh, If from thee she could lure me away, My Meerschaum!

Let revellers sing of their wine, As they toss it in ecstasy down, But the bowl I call for is thine, With its deepening amber and brown, My Meerschaum!

For when trouble would bid me despair, I call for a flagon of beer, And puff a defiance to care, Till sorrows in smoke disappear, My Meerschaum!

Though mid pleasures unnumbered I whirl, Though I traverse the billowy sea, Yet the waving and beautiful curl Of thy smoke's ever dearer to me, My Meerschaum!



Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twixt night and morn Thy muse hath roamed through poesy's bowers Upon thy fragrant pinions borne. Let others seek the bliss that reigns In homage paid at beauty's shrine, We envy not such foolish gains, In sweet content, old pipe of mine.

Ah! you have been a travelled pipe; But now, of course, you're getting stale, Just like myself, and rather ripe; You've had your fill of cakes and ale, And half-forgotten memories, too. And all the pensive thoughts that twine Around a past that, entre nous, Has pleasant been, old pipe of mine.

Old pipe of mine, for many a year What boon companions we have been! With here a smile and there a tear, How many changes we have seen! How many hearts have ceased to beat, How many eyes have ceased to shine, How many friends will never meet, Since first we met, old pipe of mine!

Though here and there the road was deep, And now and then the rain would fall; We managed every time to keep A sturdy forehead to them all! And even when she left my side, We didn't wait to fret or pine, Oh, no; we said the world was wide, And luck would turn, old pipe of mine!


And it has turned since you and I Set out to face the world alone; And, in a garret near the sky, Had scarce a crust to call our own, But many a banquet, Barmecide; And many a dream of hope divine, Lie buried in the moaning tide, That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!

But prosing isn't quite the thing, And so, I guess, I'll give it up: Just wait a moment while I sing; We'll have another parting cup, And then to bed. The stars are low; Yon sickly moon has ceased to shine; So here she goes, and off we go To Slumberland, old pipe of mine!



Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest incense raise; Let's take a smoke, a parting smoke, For good old by-gone days!

Chorus. For good old by-gone days, We'll smoke for good old by-gone days! We'll take a smoke, a parting smoke, For good old by-gone days!

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