"From his rushing For some sneishing; But his choring and his fishing Could procure no Toddy's Mixture, Moist Rappee, or Kendal Brown. "In his trouble-- Now made double, Since his last hope proved a bubble-- To his aid came Beadle Johnnie, In his parish right-hand man. "With a packet, Saying, Tak' it, It's as clean as I can mak' it, If ye'd save yer snuff on Sabbath A toom box ye needna scan. "Being lusty (Though 'twas musty) To his nose the snuff so dusty Put the minister, too much in want, The gift to scrutinize. "An idea He could see a Blessing in this panacea; So he took such hearty pinches as brought Tears into his eyes. "Then to Johnnie, His old cronie, Cried--'I fear'd I'd ne'er get ony.' 'Well, I'll tell ye,' said the beadle, 'Whaur I got the stock of snuff.' "'In the poupit Low I stoopit, An' the snuff and stour I soupit, Then I brocht ye here a handfu', For ye need it sair enough.'" The old Scottish snuff-mill, which consisted of a small box-like receptacle into which fitted a conical-shaped projection with a short, strong handle was a more substantial affair than the rasp used by the French and English snuff-takers. (See page 232). Both, answered the purpose for which they were designed, the leaves of tobacco being "toasted before the fire," and then ground in the mill as it was called. The more modern snuff-mill is similar in shape, but is used to hold the snuff after being ground, rather than for reducing the leaves to a powder. Boswell gives the following poem on snuff, in his "Shrubs of Parnassus:" "Oh Snuff! our fashionable end and aim! Strasburg, Rappee, Dutch, Scotch, what'eer thy name, Powder celestial! quintessence divine! New joys entrance my soul while thou art mine. Who takes--who takes thee not! where'er I range, I smell thy sweets from Pall Mall to the 'Change. By thee assisted, ladies kill the day, And breathe their scandal freely o'er their tea; Nor less they prize thy virtues when in bed, One pinch of thee revives the vapor'd head, Removes the spleen, removes the qualmish fit, And gives a brisker turn to female wit, Warms in the nose, refreshes like the breeze, Glows in the herd and tickles in the sneeze. Without it, Tinsel, what would be thy lot! What, but to strut neglected and forgot! What boots it for thee to have dipt thy hand In odors wafted from Arabian land? Ah! what avails thy scented solitaire, Thy careless swing and pertly tripping air, The crimson wash that glows upon thy face, Thy modish hat, and coat that flames with lace! In vain thy dress, in vain thy trimmings shine, If the Parisian snuff-box be not thine. Come to my nose, then, Snuff, nor come alone, Bring taste with thee, for taste is all thy own."