So if ever you should hear
    Of Raleigh, and them lies
  About his sarvant and his pipe
    And him as “Fire!” cries,
  You say as ’twas three sailors bold
    As sailed to Virgin-ee
  In brave old Hawkins’ gallant ship
    Who found out Tobac-kee. 
  A lurch to starboard, one to port,
    Now forrard, boys, go we,
  With a haul and a “Ho!” and a “That’s your sort!”
    To find out Tobac-kee.

Cigar and Tobacco World, London.

“KEATS TOOK SNUFF.”

    “Keats took snuff....  It has been established by the
    praise-worthy editorial research of Mr. Burton Forman.”

  So “Keats took snuff?” A few more years,
    When we are dead and famous—­eh? 
  Will they record our pipes and beers,
    And if we smoked cigars or clay? 
  Or will the world cry “Quantum suff”
  To tattle such as “Keats took snuff”?

  Perhaps some chronicler would wish
    To know what whiskey we preferred,
  And if we ever dined on fish,
    Or only took the joint and bird. 
  Such facts are quite as worthy stuff,
  Good chronicler, as “Keats took snuff.”

  You answer:  “But, if you were Keats—­”
    Tut! never mind your buts and ifs,
  Of little men record their meats,
    Their drinks, their troubles, and their tiffs,
  Of the great dead there’s gold enough
  To spare us such as “Keats took snuff.”

  Well, go your ways, you little folk,
    Who polish up the great folk’s lives;
  Record the follies that they spoke,
    And paint their squabbles with their wives. 
  Somewhere, if ever ghosts be gruff,
  I trust some Keats will “give you snuff.”

The Globe, London.

THE BALLAD OF THE PIPE.

  Oh, give me but Virginia’s weed,
  An earthen bowl, a stem of reed,
    What care I for the weather? 
  Though winter freeze and summer broil
  We rest us from our days of toil
    My Pipe and I together!

  Like to a priest of sacred fane,
  I nightly light the glow again
    With reverence and pleasure;
  For through this plain and modest bowl
  I coax sweet mem’ry to my soul
    And many trippings measure!

  There’s comfort in each puff of smoke,
  Defiance to ill-fortune’s stroke
    And happiness forever! 
  There grows a volume full of thought
  And humor, than the book you bought
    Holds nothing half so clever!

  The summer fragrance, all pent up
  Among the leaves, is here sent up
    In dreams of summer glory;
  And these blue clouds that slowly rise
  Were colored by the summer skies,
    And tell a summer story.

  And oh! the happiest, sweetest times
  Come ringing all their silver chimes
    Of merry songs and laughter;
  And all that may be well and worth
  For Mother Future to bring forth
    I do imagine after.