My best ideas here are sown,
(And best expressed when most alone)
Here, every muse can find a place
Yet take no atom of its space.
Tobacco! what to thee we owe,
Is what alone true smokers know:
To thee they owe the lively thought,
And joys without repentance bought.
To thee they owe the moral song,
The night that never seems too long,
The pleasant dream, refreshing sleep,
And sense that all should strive to keep.
It cures the pride of self-debate,
And pensive care, and deadly hate;
And love itself would nearer bring,
Did females love this coaxing thing.—
But they, the slaves of custom's rule,
Are ever to the smoker cool,
And hate the plant, whose gentle sway
Bids us their noisy tongues obey.
The happy days I would recall
When Jane to me was all in all!
The firm we to the town did show
Was, Salem, Jane, Segar, and Co.
The sanded box was near us placed
Which held the dregs we chose to waste;
Thus pleased to pass the winter's eve,
And thus the lingering hours deceive.
No wrangling was permitted there—
'Twas friendship all, and love sincere;
And they received affronts enough
Who entered with the Cloven Hoof.
The social whiff went cheerly on!—
But Jane is to that people gone
Where dear tobacco!—strong and sound—
Is not upon their invoice found!—
It sheds a magic on my pen
To deaden all despotic men,
A charm that can the soul command,
Nor kings, nor courtiers shall withstand: