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.
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!
FRANK NEWTON HOLMAN.
ASHES.
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.
DE WITT STERRY.
CHOOSING A WIFE BY A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
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_.
MY THREE LOVES.
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.
HENRY S. LEIGH.
SMOKE IS THE FOOD OF LOVERS.
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_.
CLOUDS.
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_.
IN FAVOR OF TOBACCO.
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).
MY CIGARETTE.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_.
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.
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.
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.
ENVOI.
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.
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
HE RESPONDETH.
SHE.
You still persist in using,
I observe with great regret,
The needlessly expensive
Cigarette.
HE.
You should set a good example;
But you seem to quite forget
That you use a thirty-dollar
Vinaigrette.
_Life._
TO SEE HER PIPE AWRY.
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!
C.F.
INGIN SUMMER.
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.
EVA WILDER MCGLASSON.
EDIFYING REFLECTIONS OF A TOBACCO-SMOKER.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANSLATED BY
EDWARD BRECK._
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.
THE LOST LOTUS.
'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.
ANON.
THE SCENT OF A GOOD CIGAR.
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.
KATE A. CARRINGTON.
TO MY 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.
CHARLES SPRAGUE.
KNICKERBOCKER.
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!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
THE DISCOVERY OF TOBACCO.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_.
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.
THE DISCOVERY OF TOBACCO.
'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."
"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.
THE BALLAD OF THE PIPE.
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.
HERMANN RAVE.
THE OLD CLAY PIPE.
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.
A.B. VAN FLEET.
PERNICIOUS WEED!
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.
WILLIAM COWPER.
TWO OTHER HEARTS.
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_.
THE SMOKE TRAVELLER.
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.