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.