Three Antis[24] went groaning out into the east―― Out into the east, as the sun arose; Each thought on the newspaper he loved the least; The _Tobacco Plant_ followed, and chaff’d at their woes. But antis will croak, and smokers will smoke, Tho’ chaff it be sudden, and endless the joke That the antis afford with their moaning. The _Plant_ having stopped in a garden bower, Lit up his sweet pipe, as the sun arose; And he heard those three antis bawl out by the hour The weakest of humbug, in seedy old clothes. But antis will croak, and the _Plant_ have his joke, And chaff, if ignited, must all end in smoke, And the antis must soon end their moaning. Three antis lay drunk on the shining sands, In the morning gleam, as the sun arose; And smokers are laughing and rubbing their hands, To know they’re already relieved of their foes. For _Observers_ will talk, and the _Plant_ doesn’t sleep; Though tough be the job, ’tis amusing to keep All the anti-Tobaccoites moaning. From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. January, 1875. ODE TO TOBACCO. Thou who, when fears attack, Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman’s back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet, when they’ve clear’d away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest: I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told. Not to thy credit How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost―― Useless, except to roast―― Doctors have said it: How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbours; Jones――(who, I’m glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J――) Daily absorbs a clay After his labours. Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We’re not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here’s to thee, Bacon! C. S. CALVERLEY. ―――― DETAINED. Hand me another spill―― Phœbe, my glass refill, As I’ve some time to kill. What do you mention? Boat, gun, and tackle nigh, Horse and trap ready?――I Think I can manage my Task of detention. Rowing? I’ve had a bout! Raining? Then can’t go out! Capital stream for trout? Not very handy! No, I’ll just pen a lay; Clear all these things away; Landlord! another clay Soda and brandy