The evil effects occasioned by man's indulging too frequently in tobacco have been the subject of many a fierce debate between the friends and foes of the "great plant." Many, however, are not aware of the fatality attending its use by the brute creation. A modern English poet on hearing of the result produced on a cow from chewing tobacco, penned the following sad lines which he entitles—"An elegy on somebody's Cow."
Weep! weep, ye chewers! Lowly bend, and bow;
Here lieth what was once a happy cow.
No more her voice she'll raise, now low, now high,
In amber fields, beneath an autumn sky;
No more she'll wander to the milking-pail,
While swine stand by to see her chew "pig-tail;"
No more round her the bees, a busy crew,
Shall linger, eager after "honey-dew;"
No more for her shall smoking grains be spread:
All bellowless remains her empty shed.
Sad was her fate. Reflect, all ye who read:
Life's flower destroyed by the accursed weed.
When first the yellow juice streamed o'er her lip,
One might have said, "This is a sad cow-slip."
To chew the peaceful cud by nature bid,
Degraded man taught her to chew a quid.
Sad the effect on body and on mind:
Her coat grew "shaggy," her milk nicotined;
Over her head shall naught but clover grow,
While o'er her peaceful grave the clouds shall blow.
No invalid shall ask for her cow-heel,
To heal his ailments with the simple meal;
Her whiskful tail into no soup shall go;
Mother of "weal" that would but bring us woe.
Her tripe shall honor not the festive meal,
Where smoking onions all their joys reveal;
Nor shall those shins that oft lagged on the road,
Be sold in cheap cook-shops as "a la mode,"
Her tongue must soon be sandwiched under ground,
Nor at pic-nics with cheap champagne go round;
Yea, even her poor bones are past all hope—
Not fit to be boiled down for scented soap.
Ah! hide her hide, poor beast. Her stomachs five
Dyed with the chewing she could not survive;
The very worms from her will turn away,
To seek some anti-chewer for their prey.
Ye chewers! be ye pilgrims to her tomb;
Lament with us o'er her untimely doom.
Awhile she stood the anti-chewer's butt,
Till scythe-arm'd Time gave her an "ugly cut."
She stagger'd to her death, and feebly cried,
And sneezed, "Achew! achew!" and chewing died.
There are many parodies of popular poems written in praise of the weed; of which the following in imitation of Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade," entitled "The Charge of the Tobacco Jar Brigade," is one of the best.
"Epigrams, epigrams,
Pour'd in, and numbered—
Good, bad, indifferent—
More than Six Hundred.
"Epigrams potters want,"
Quoth The Tobacco Plant:
Write! you for fame who pant;
Write! we'll three prizes grant."
Wrote for Tobacco-Jars,
Over Six Hundred.
Postmen, ere morning's light;
Postmen, whilst day was bright;
Postmen, as closed in night,
Ran—tan'd and thunder'd
Loud at our office door;
Brought letters, many score—
Contents of bags—to pour
Table and desk all o'er:
Handfuls and armfuls bore,
Casting them on the floor.
Then through the town they tore,
Hastening back for more—
More than Six Hundred.
Letters to right of us,
Letters to left of us,
Letters in front of us,
Seeming unnumbered!
Envelopes every size
Met our astonish'd eyes.
Writer with writer vies!
Which wins the chiefest prize
Out of Six Hundred.
How did each writer strain
After a happy vein!
Pegasus, spurning rein,
Shied, jibb'd, and blunder'd.
Reverend writers, then
Took up the winged pen;
Suff'rers on beds of pain
Sought the bright muse again;
Lawyer and barrister
Courted and harassed her;
M. D.s and editors;
Debtors and creditors;
Artists and artisans,
Nicotine's partisans;
Nurses and gentle dames
Call'd it endearing names;
Poets, ship-masters, too;
Ay! poetasters, too;
Wooing fair Nicotine,
Six hundred scribes were seen.
Anti-Tobacco cant,
Bigoted, bilious rant,
Bursting to vent their spleen,
Joined the Six Hundred.