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.
IRVING BROWNE.
SMOKING SONG.
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._
HOW IT ONCE WAS.
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_.
HER BROTHER'S CIGARETTE.
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.
ANON.
IN THE OL' TOBACKER PATCH.
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.
S.Q. LAPIUS.
MÆCENAS BIDS HIS FRIEND TO DINE.
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 Neufchâtel,
A bit of Cheshire likes me well;
Café au lait or coffee black,
With Kirsch or Kümmel 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.
ANON.
TO MY MEERSCHAUM.
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!
P.D.R.
OLD PIPE OF MINE.
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!
CANNON SONG.
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!
JOHN J. GORMLEY.
CANNON SONG.
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!
We'll crown the cannon with a cloud,
We'll celebrate its praise;
Recalling _its_ old parting smoke,
For good old by-gone days!
We'll smoke to these we leave behind
In devious college ways;
We'll smoke to songs we've sung before,
In good old by-gone days.
We'll smoke to _Alma Mater's_ name;
She loves the cloud we raise!
For well she knows the "biggest guns"
Are in the coming days!
We'll smoke the times, the good old times,
When we were called _fire_!
Their light shall blaze in memory,
Till the lamp of life expire!
Then let each smoking pipe be broke,--
Hurrah for coming days!
We'll take a march, a merry march,
To meet the coming days!
H.P. PECK.
TOBACCO.
The Indian weed, withered quite,
Green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The pipe that is so lily-white,
Shows thee to be a mortal wight;
And even such, gone with a touch,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
Thinke thou beholdst the vanity
Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soule defil'd with sin,
And then the fire it doth require.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The ashes that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind,
That unto dust return thou must.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
GEORGE WITHER, 1620.
VIRGINIA'S KINGLY PLANT.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_
Oh, muse! grant me the power
(I have the will) to sing
How oft in lonely hour,
When storms would round me lower,
Tobacco's proved a king!
Philanthropists, no doubt
With good intentions ripe,
Their dogmas may put out,
And arrogantly shout
The evils of the pipe.
Kind moralists, with tracts,
Opinions fine may show;
Produce a thousand facts,--
How ill tobacco acts
Man's system to o'erthrow.
Learn'd doctors have employed
Much patience, time, and skill,
To prove tobacco cloyed
With acrid alkaloid,
With power the nerves to kill.
E'en popes have curst the plant;
Kings bade its use to cease;
But all the pontiff's rant
And royal James's cant
Ne'er made its use decrease.
Teetotalers may stamp
And roar at pipes and beer;
But place them in a swamp,
When nights are dark and damp,--
Their tunes would change, I fear.
No advocate am I
Of excess in one or t'other,
And ne'er essayed to try
In wine to drown a sigh,
Or a single care to smother.
Yet, in moderation pure,
A glass is well enough;
But a troubled heart to cure,
Kind feelings to insure,
Give me a cheerful puff.
How oft a learn'd divine
His sermons will prepare,
Not by imbibing wine,
But 'neath th' influence fine
Of a pipe of "baccy" rare!
How many a pleasing scene,
How many a happy joke,
How many a satire keen,
Or problem sharp, has been
Evolved or born of smoke!
How oft amidst the jar,
Of storms on ruin bent,
On shipboard, near or far,
To the drenched and shiv'ring tar,
Tobacco's solace lent!
Oh, tell me not 'tis bad,
Or that it shortens life!
Its charms can soothe the sad,
And make the wretched glad,
In trouble and in strife.
'Tis used in every clime,
By all men, high and low;
It is praised in prose and rhyme,
And can but end with time;
So let the kind herb grow!
'Tis a friend to the distress'd;
'Tis a comforter in need;
It is social, soothing, blest;
It has fragrance, force, and zest;
Then hail the kingly weed!
ANON.
TOO GREAT A SACRIFICE.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear,
Whom fifty thousand dollars made so dear,
To test Lothario's passion, simply said,
"Forego the weed before we go to wed.
For smoke, take flame; I'll be that flame's bright fanner.
To have your Anna, give up your Havana."
But he, when thus she brought him to the scratch,
Lit his cigar, and threw away his match.
ANON.
TO A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest,
Belov'd and honored by the wise,
Come filled with honest "Weekly's best,"
And kindled from the lofty skies.
While round me clouds of incense roll,
With guiltless joys you charm the sense,
And nobler pleasure to the soul
In hints of moral truth dispense.
Soon as you feel th' enliv'ning ray,
To dust you hasten to return,
And teach me that my earliest day
Began to give me to the urn.
But though thy grosser substance sink
To dust, thy purer part aspires;
This when I see, I joy to think
That earth but half of me requires.
Like thee, myself am born to die,
Made half to rise, and half to fall.
Oh, could I, while my moments fly,
The bliss you give me give to all!
_Gentleman's Magazine_, July, 1745.
In the smoke of my dear cigarito
Cloud castles rise gorgeous and tall;
And Eros, divine muchachito,
With smiles hovers over it all.
But dreaming, forgetting to cherish
The fire at my lips as it dies,
The dream and the rapture must perish,
And Eros descend from the skies.
O wicked and false muchachito,
Your rapture I yet may recall;
But, like my re-lit cigarito,
A bitterness tinges it all.
CAMILLA K. VON K.
A GOOD CIGAR.
Oh, 'tis well and enough,
A whiff or a puff
From the heart of a pipe to get;
And a dainty maid
Or a budding blade
May toy with the cigarette;
But a man, when the time
Of a glorious prime
Dawns forth like a morning star,
Wants the dark-brown bloom
And the sweet perfume
That go with a good cigar.
To lazily float
In a painted boat
On a shimmering morning sea,
Or to flirt with a maid
In the afternoon shade
Seems good enough sport to be;
But the evening hour,
With its subtle power,
Is sweeter and better far,
If joined to the joy,
Devoid of alloy,
That lurks in a good cigar.
When a blanket wet
Is solidly set
O'er hopes prematurely grown;
When ambition is tame,
And energy lame,
And the bloom from the fruit is blown;
When to dance and to dine
With women and wine
Past poverty pleasures are,--
A man's not bereft
Of all peace, if there's left
The joy of a good cigar.
NORRIS BULL.
A glass is good, and a lass is good,
And a pipe to smoke in cold weather;
The world is good, and the people are good,
And we're all good fellows together.
JOHN O'KEEFE: _Sprigs of Laurel_, Act ii. sc. i.
MY FRIENDLY PIPE.
Let sybarites still dream delights
While smoking cigarettes,
Whose opiates get in their pates
Till waking brings regrets;
Oh, let them doze, devoid of woes,
Of troubles, and of frets.
And let the chap who loves to nap
With his cigar in hand
Pursue his way, and live his day,
As runs time's changing sand;
Let him delight by day and night
In his peculiar brand.
But as for me, I love to be
Provided with a pipe,--
A rare old bowl to warm my soul,
A meerschaum brown and ripe,--
With good plug cut, no stump or butt,
Nor filthy gutter-snipe.
My joys increase! It brings me peace
As nothing else can do;
From all the strife of daily life
Here my relief is true.
I watch its rings; it purrs and sings--
And then it's cheaper, too!
_Detroit Tribune_.
ODE TO TOBACCO.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend,
Come, and thy suppliant attend
In each dull, lonely hour;
And though misfortunes lie around,
Thicker than hailstones on the ground,
I'll rest upon thy power.
Then while the coxcomb, pert and proud,
The politician, learned and loud,
Keep one eternal clack,
I'll tread where silent Nature smiles,
Where Solitude our woe beguiles,
And chew thee, dear Tobac.
DANIEL WEBSTER.
A BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire,
I ne'er knew the Benedict's yoke;
I worship a fairy-like, fanciful form,
That goes up the chimney in smoke.
I sit in my dressing-gowned slipperful ease,
Without wife or bairns to provoke,
And puff at my pipe, while my hopes and my fears
All go up the chimney in smoke.
I sit with my pipe, and my heart's lonesome care
I try, but all vainly, to choke.
Ah, me! but I find that the flame that Love lights
Won't go up the chimney in smoke.
_Cigar and Tobacco World_, London.
THE DREAMER'S PIPE.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip,
Clutched between the dreamer's lip,
Fragrant odors from thy bowl
Mingling with the dreamer's soul;
Curling wreaths of smoke ascending,
Comfort sweet with incense blending.
Joy and peace and solace sending
To the dreamer's heart.
Fashioned like a satyr's head,
Crowned with fire, glowing red,
Quaintly carved and softly sleek
As Afric maiden's downy cheek.
Comrade of each idle hour
In forest shade or leafy bower;
Lotus-eaters from thy power
Ne'er can break apart.
Darkly colored from long use
With tobacco's balmy juice
From snowy white to ebon turned
By the incense daily burned.
Laid at night within thy case
Of velvet soft--thy resting place--
Whence with leering, stained face
Daily thou must start,--
To soothe the dreamer's every care,
To glow and burn and fill the air
With thy curling perfume rare:
As thou charmest gloom away,
With the dreamer rest for aye
Friend of youth, and manhood ripe
All hail to thee, thou meerschaum pipe!
_New Orleans Times Democrat._
SUBLIME TOBACCO.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth
Came breathing o'er the aromatic South,
Not like a "bed of violets" on the gale,
But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale,
Borne from a short, frail pipe, which yet had blown
Its gentle odors over either zone,
And, puff'd where'er minds rise or waters roll,
Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole,
Opposed its vapor as the lightning flash'd,
And reek'd, 'midst mountain billows unabashed,
To Æolus a constant sacrifice,
Through every change of all the varying skies.
And what was he who bore it? I may err,
But deem him sailor or philosopher.
Sublime tobacco! which from east to west
Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest;
Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides
His hours, and rivals opiums and his brides;
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand,
Though not less loved, in Wapping on the Strand;
Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe,
When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;
Like other charmers, wooing the caress
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress;
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties,--give me a cigar!
LORD BYRON:
_The Island, Canto ii., Stanza 19._
SMOKING AWAY.
Floating away like the fountains' spray,
Or the snow-white plume of a maiden,
The smoke-wreaths rise to the starlit skies
With blissful fragrance laden.
_Chorus._ Then smoke away till a golden ray
Lights up the dawn of the morrow,
For a cheerful cigar, like a shield, will bar,
The blows of care and sorrow.
The leaf burns bright, like the gems of light
That flash in the braids of Beauty;
It nerves each heart for the hero's part
On the battle-plain of duty.
In the thoughtful gloom of his darkened room,
Sits the child of song and story,
But his heart is light, for his pipe burns bright,
And his dreams are all of glory.
By the blazing fire sits the gray-haired sire,
And infant arras surround him;
And he smiles on all in that quaint old hall,
While the smoke-curls float around him.
In the forest grand of our native land,
When the savage conflict ended,
The "pipe of peace" brought a sweet release
From toil and terror blended.
The dark-eyed train of the maids of Spain
'Neath their arbor shades trip lightly,
And a gleaming cigar, like a new-born star,
In the clasp of their lips burns brightly
It warms the soul like the blushing bowl,
With its rose-red burden streaming,
And drowns it in bliss, like the first warm kiss
From the lips with love-buds teeming.
FRANCIS MILES FINCH.
A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
May the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse
If I can a passage see
In this word-perplexity,
Or a fit expression find,
Or a language to my mind
(Still the phrase is wide or scant),
To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!
Or in any terms relate
Half my love, or half my hate:
For I hate, yet love, thee so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take
'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
That our worst foes cannot find us,
And ill-fortune, that would thwart us,
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, through thy height'ning steam
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowèd features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle,
Some few vapors thou mayst raise
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The Old World was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And for ivy round his dart
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume,
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite--
Nay, rather,
Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplex'd lovers use
At a need when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamore,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more,
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,--
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.
Or as men, constrain'd to part
With what's nearest to their heart.
While their sorrow's at the height
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever
Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.