They go about, and fume and spout, Against Tobacco railing, With here and there a lusty shout, And here and there a wailing. I’m smoked on lawns and grassy plots, By sportsmen in the covers; My cloud’s blue as forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. There is not under moon and stars, In this world’s wildernesses, A plant that care more stoutly bars, Or labour better blesses. Behold my vapour curve and flow Tow’rds where the pure clouds quiver; Let antis come and antis go―― My smoke goes up for ever. R. C. _Cope’s Tobacco Plant._ March, 1874. ――――:o:―――― SONG FROM THE MIKADO. The travellers who try in the spring, Tra la! To sell their cigars by the case, Must find it a difficult thing, Tra la! When the shopkeeper won’t buy a thing, Tra la! And kicks them right out of the place, And he kicks them all out of his place. And that’s what they mean when they say or they sing: “Oh, bother the trade we are having this spring,” Tra la la la la la, tra la la la la, Tra la la la la la lah! ――――:o:―――― The following can scarcely be termed _parodies_, they are poems in praise of Tobacco written in the newly-revived but old-fashioned Ballade metre. BALLADE OF THE BEST PIPE. I hear you fervently extol The virtues of your ancient clay, As black as any piece of coal. To me it smells of rank decay And bones of people passed away,―― A smell I never could admire. With all respect to you I say, Give me a finely seasoned briar. Poor Jones, whose judgment as a whole Is faultless, has been led astray To nurse a costly meerschaum bowl. Well, let him nurse it as he may, I hardly think he’ll find it pay. Before the colour gets much higher, He’ll drop it on the grate some day. Give me a finely seasoned brier. The heathen Turk of Istamboul, In Oriental turban gay, Delights his unregenerate soul With hookahs, bubbling in a way To fill a Christian with dismay, And wake the old Crusading fire. May no such pipe be mine I pray! Give me a finely seasoned brier ENVOY. Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they That I should view them with desire? I’ll sing, till all my hair is grey, Give me a finely seasoned brier. _The University News Sheet._ St. Andrews, N.B. March 3, 1886. ―――― THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.