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THE PIPE OF TOBACCO.

HAIL, solace of the wounded heart,
Whose fumes ambrosial joys impart
Beyond the doctor's gilded bait,
Beyond the glutton's sumptuous state!
How bless'd when by the chimney's side
1 draw the brisk, delicious tide,
And talk with venerable pride

Of things abstruse,

By thy sweet vapours more supply'd
Than by the Muse.

How we discuss the daily scandal,

And politics divinely handle,

Knock authors down-by inch of candle,

And damn cach critic,

Till seiz'd by smoke, I, lack! can stand ill, Quite paralytic.

The midwife's gab of fire obstetric,

The smith's Newtonian flow of rhet'ric,

The barber's tale of Charles or Fred'ric,
The joiner's carol,

When join'd by thy supreme emetic,

Would broach a barrel

Thy dingy volumes most they read,
And pluck forth laurels from thy weed;
Blest be the man who sow'd thy seed,
With cautious care,

Bright fire, and smoke, may he ne'er need,
And 'bacco fare.

O! how religion, trade, and state,
Chime in so nice with each debate!
Zounds! how tobacco tends to create
Good-humour'd battles,

And bids the whole communion prate
As loud as rattles.

So tabernacled, son and brother,
Nod, drowsy, drooping, to each other,
Striving their listlessness to smother,

At snuffled sermon,

Or preacher who has lost his rudder,
Capricious vermin!

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Puns, quibbles, cranks, conundrums, crosticks, Deal bloody blows, like murd'ring pot-sticks, And, faith, they sometimes wield their hot sticks, Inspir'd by thee, sir,

But then they'd eat ev'n grass (and rot sticks!) Like Nebuchadnezzar.

Bland comforter of all poor bards,
How balmy o'er a pack o' cards,
When conversation interlards

Thy friendly vapour,

O! I will court thy best regards,

To soil my paper.

And though thou cost me much in pocket,
Tobacco! 'gad, I'll never lock it,

But wight who ever will may smoke it,

With tongue awag,

Till tapers sink into the socket,

Like fox in bag.

AN HEROIC EPISTLE

FROM A FEMALE RABBI IN JERUSALEM TO A CELEBRATED BUCK IN IRELAND.

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DEAR, hapless youth! the object of my flame,
Believe me still in love, and still the same;
Ev'n now my bosom feels the former fire,
Again thy letter wakes my warm desire ;
Again I burn with all a lover's pain,
And greet thee! distant, on Ierne's plain.
Ah! could you think the torments I endure,
(Sad sign! my hopeless passion still is pure)
Lest thou through wilds and dreary desarts go,
Or lie in bogs, a spectacle of woe!

Perhaps, ev'n now deform with sable mire,
You want a warming glass and cheering fire;
Nor canst thou bear their malice so prepense,
Depriv'd of half thy wit and half thy pence.

No sullen landlord there will take thee in,
Refuse thy cash, and give the glass of gin!
No! barb'rous men! they, join'd with waiters, fleece
The luckless wretch, and fob the golden piece :
Gods! can the Irish have their hearts so hard?
And will their inns the trav'lling buck discard?
Can all his tales of pleasure and of pain,

Of Dukes cornuted, and of shoeboys slain,

Of puppies pink'd, and beaus by monkies torn,
Of chairmen bilk'd, and watermen forlorn,
Told in the pleasing garb of nature, fail?
Oh! can't they broach a tun of amber ale?
No! though the suppliant prays, devoid of gold,
No frothing vase he gains, of pewter mold;
For him no quarts with foliag'd handles shine,
And letters, carv'd by workmanship divine;
No grooms with blankets toss my love on high,
"And add new monsters to the frighted sky."
Or plung'd in lakes too muddy for the Muse,
His grizzly locks begrim'd with horrent ooze.
My lover stares! I'll catch him in my arms,
Though ponds and blankets threat with dire alarms!
I'll wring those locks I often oil'd so smart,
When thou, anointed monarch of my heart,
Or laid thy head recumbent on my knee,
And shook thy greasy dripping curls at me.

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