Hail! to the Plant which we owe to brave Raleigh, Long may it flourish on Cuba’s lone shore, Bloom on the mountain, and spread in the valley, Fertile, and fragrant, and fresh evermore! Bright sunshine, nourish it, Gentle deeds, cherish it, Life giving breezes, around it still flow; Moisture and warmth, give aid, That it may never fade; Tabak, St. Nicotine, ho, ieroe! * * * * * Smoke, brother, smoke of the pride of Virginia; Snuff, brother, snuff, if you’d clear up your brain; Chew, brother, chew, and I’ll bet you a guinea, Once fairly started, you’ll do it again. Oh, would our northern air Nurture this plant so rare! Never aught else in my garden I’d grow: All my flowers pluck’d should be, Fruit-trees give place to thee, Tabak, St. Nicotine, ho, ieroe! ―――― THE LAY OF THE LAST SMOKER. The weed was rank, the pipe was old, Along the road the smoker rolled; His scared and hesitating way Showed that he owed and couldn’t pay. The pipe, his one remaining joy, Was scoff of every man and boy; For last of all the smokers, he, This old man was well known to be For ’Bacca’s day was lately fled, And all his brother smokers dead; And he but stayed to smoke and swear, And wonder where the others were. No more amid the jest and song, He puffed at his churchwarden long; No longer in a smoking car He blew a cloud from his cigar, And stood his ground both stern and stout, To smoke the anti-puffers out. Old days were drowned in Time’s dark stream, And “antis” reigned now all supreme; The quivering noses of the time Now called each harmless puff a crime. A wandering smoker, scorned and sad, He nearly drove the city mad; And had to smoke――oh! wretched elf! Some ’Bacca that he grew himself. * * * * * From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. April, 1876. ――――:o:―――― THE LAST CIGAR. (_After Thomas Moore._) ’Tis a last choice Havana I hold here alone; All its fragrant companions In perfume have flown. No more of its kindred To gladden the eye, So my empty cigar case I close with a sigh. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine; but the stem I’ll bite off and light thee To waft thee to them And gently I’ll scatter The ashes you shed, As your soul joins its mates in A cloud overhead. All pleasure is fleeting, It blooms to decay From the weeds glowing circle, The ash drops away. A last whiff is taken, The butt-end is thrown, And with empty cigar case I sit all alone. ANONYMOUS. ――――