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._
INVOCATION TO TOBACCO.
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.
HENRY JAMES MELLEN.
VIRGINIA TOBACCO.
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!_"
Attributed to JOHN STANLEY GREGSON.
AN ODE OF THANKS FOR CERTAIN CIGARS.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._
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.