Why should men reek, like chimneys, with foul smoke, Their neighbors and themselves to nearly choke? Avoid it, ye John Bulls, and eke ye Paddies! Avoid it, sons of Cambria, and Scottish laddies! Let reason convince you that it very sad is, And far too bad is, And enough to make one mad is To be smoked like a red herring or rank Finedon haddies. _J. S._ No punishment save hanging's too severe For those who'd rob the poor man of his beer; But for the wretch who'd take away his pipe, I think he's fully execution ripe! _Pipe Clay._ Weeds are but cares! Well, what of that! There's one weed bears a goodly crop; And this exception, then, 'tis flat, Doth give that rule a firmer prop. Tobacco brings the genial mood, Warm heart, shrewd thought, and while we reap From this poor weed such harvest good, We'll hold more boasted harvests cheap. _Festus._ To poets give the laurel wreath, let heroes have their lay, Of roses twine for lovely youth the garland fresh and gay; But we poor mortals, quite content, life's fev'rish way pursue, Can we but crown our foolish pates with wreaths of fragrant blue, Convinced that all terrestrial things which please us or provoke, Of ashes come, to ashes go, and only end in smoke. _Pocosmipo._ Whilst cannon's smoke o'erwhelms with deadly cloud The soldier's comrades in a common shroud, And whilst the conflagration in the street, With crushing roar the ruin makes complete, Tobacco's smoke like incense seeks the skies-- Blesses the giver, and in silence dies! _Theta._ Use me well, and you shall see An excellent servant I will be; Let me once become your master, And you shall rue the great disaster! As coin does to he who borrows, I'll soothe your cares and ease your sorrows; Abuse me, and your nerves I'll shatter, Your heart I'll break, your cash I'll scatter, _Use, not Abuse._ The savage in his wild estate, When feuds and discords cease, Soothes with the fragrant weed his hate, And smokes the pipe of peace. Long may the plant good-will create, And banish strife afar: Our only cloud its incense sweet, And this our only jar. _Scire Facias._ Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said; I'll have to smoke, or I'll be dead? If so, then let the caitiff dread! My wrath shall fall upon his head. 'Tis plain he ne'er the Plant hath read; But "goody" trash, perchance, instead. Dear Cope, good night!--Yours, Master Fred.