Nicotiana; Or, The Smoker's and Snuff-Taker's Companion

by Henry James Meller

ORIGINAL POETRY.

NEW WORDS TO AN OLD TUNE.

A COMIC DITTY.

Lieutenant Fire was fond of smoke, And cash he ow’d a deal; Tho’ some said he’d a heart of OAK, For others it could feel: With wit he was,—not money stor’d,— His landlord thought it meet, As he’d liv’d free so long on board, Why he should join the Fleet. The station he lik’d not at all, And wish’d the duty o’er; He saw some fights, and many ball, But ne’er saw such before. To banish care, he sought a rod, And smok’d like any mid, But unlike some,—altho’ in quod,— Disdain’d to take a QUID. And though a man, both short and stout, All knew him in a crowd; For oh, he never mov’d, without His head was in a CLOUD: In pris’n he met a friend he’d known Full many years ago, In ‘four in hand’ his cash had flown, And now he’d come to WOE. Poor Brown, alas! he had been GREEN, And so his hopes had marr’d; But thought it strange in turn, I ween, He should be driven HARD. Now he took snuff, in quantum suff., He thought it calm’d his woes,— While one friend blew the light cigar, The other blew his NOSE. “As we have bask’d in fortune’s calm, Now squalls come we’ll not flinch,” Thus spoke the tar, and gave his arm, And Brown gave him a PINCH. “Now, Fire, all snuffs are good, we know, Except when ill-prepar’d, I love a BOX and you a BLOW, But keep me from Blackguard. At Lundyfoot I am no hand, Seldom its dust I take, ah! Each day or so, by turns, I go From Strasburg to Jamaica.” “’Tis well, my boy,” return’d the tar, “Such journeys you can wend, For fuel here don’t go so far, Here’s plenty of WALLS-END.” Of future scenes of happiness, The tar he often spoke; But they, indeed, as you may guess, But ended all in SMOKE. At length there money came one day,— Each left the walls unkind; The tar went out—yet strange to say, His ASHES left behind!

ODE ON TOBACCO.

Gently o’er my senses stealing, Indian-weed, I love thee well; Raising, soothing, passion’s feeling, Who can all thy magic tell: Who can paint the soft entrancing, All thy virtues who can know? Moving visions, sweetly glancing, Giving joy and calming woe. Tell me, do the proud ones scorn ye, Does the monarch on his throne, In the countries where are born ye, In the lands of either zone; Prince and beggar, both caress thee, And to thee their homage pay; From Ind to Lapland, myriads bless thee, All bow to thy sovereign sway. True, there are some soft ones ever, Like a drop within the sea; Weak in nerves, yet vastly clever, Who have vainly ’countered thee: But thy strength, their own excelling, Moves the wrath they cannot quell; Envy makes their breast its dwelling, And the grapes are sour as[23]——

STANZAS TO A LADY.

IN DEFENCE OF SMOKING.

What taught me first sweet peace to blend, With hopes and fears that knew no end, My dearest, truest, fondest friend? My pipe, love! What cheer’d me in my boyhood’s hour, When first I felt Love’s witching power, To bear deceit,—false woman’s dow’r? My pipe, love! What still upheld me since the guile, Attendant on false friendship’s smile, And I in hope, deceiv’d the while? My pipe, love! What cheer’d me when misfortunes came, And all had flown me?—still the same, My only true and constant flame, My pipe, love! What sooth’d me in a foreign land, And charm’d me with its influence bland, Still whisp’ring comfort, hand in hand? My pipe, love! What charm’d me in the thoughts of past, When mem’ry’s gleam my eyes o’ercast, And burns to serve me to the last? My pipe, love!

THE LAST QUID.

He seiz’d the quid,—’twas hard and dry, The last one in its nook; The beggar’d sailor heav’d a sigh,— Despair was in his look. And have I fought, and bled in vain, Are all my comforts o’er— When shall I see thy like again, Thou last one of my store. High and dry I’ve kept thee here, In hopes of getting aid; My cruise, alas, is lost, I fear— Oh why was BACCE made! I’ve borne all weathers, wind and rain, And patiently I bore— When shall I see thy like again, Thou last one of my store. His gaze was on the muddy ground, And mis’ry in his eye; Sudden he sprang with eager bound, On something glitt’ring nigh: A sovereign’s aid, ’tis very plain, Thank heaven, I ask no more; Soon shall I see thy like again, Thou last one of my store.

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