There are jars of jelly, jars of jam, Jars of potted-beef and ham; But welcome most to me, by far, Is my dear old Tobacco-Jar.

There are pipes producing sounds divine, Pipes producing luscious wine; But when I consolation need, I take the pipe that burns the weed.

_Jars._

Friend of my youth, companion of my later days, What needs my muse to sing thy various praise?

In country or in town, on land or sea, The weed is still delightful company.

In joy or sorrow, grief or racking pain, We fly to thee for solace once again.

Delicious plant, by all the world consumed, 'Tis pity thou, like man, to ashes too art doom'd.

_Erutxim._

Hail plant of power, more than king's renown, Beloved alike in country and in town; In hotter climes oft mingled with the jet Of falling fountains; whilst the cigarette Kisses the fair one's lips, and by thy breath Redeems the wearied heart from ennui's death.

_Theta._

If e'er in social jars you join, Seek this, and let them cease: Let all your quarrels end in smoke, And pa.s.s the pipe of peace.

_Fumigator._

[Ill.u.s.tration: The explosion.]

Many a jar of old outbroke Into fire and riot; This will yield, with fragrant smoke, Happy thought, and quiet.

41,911.

The moralist, philosopher, and sage.

Have sought by every means, in every age, That which should cause the strife of men to cease, And steep the world in fellowship and peace; But all their toil and diligence were vain, 'Till Raleigh, n.o.ble Raleigh! crossed the main, And brought to Britain's sh.o.r.es the wish'd-for prize, The sovereign balm of life--within it lies.

_Dum Spiro Fumigo._

To rich men a pastime, to poor men a treat, To all a true tonic most bracing and sweet, To talent a pleasure, to genius a joy, To workmen a comfort, to none an alloy, The tyrant it softens; it soothes him if mad, The king who may rule if he smokes not, is sad.

_Kit._

Sacred substance! sweet, serene; Soothing sorrow's saddest scene: Scent-suffusing, silv'ry smoke, Softly smoothing suffering's stroke;-- Solacing so silently-- Still so swift, so sure, so sly: Smoke sublimated soars supreme, Sweetest soul-sustaining stream!

_Similia Similibus._

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.

That tobacco in one form or another has been patronized from the cottage to the throne, no one will deny who is at all acquainted with the history of the plant. And while it has had many a royal hater, it can also boast of having many a kingly user. A favorite of king and courtier, its use was alike common in the palace and the courtyard. It can claim, also, many celebrated physicians who have been its patrons, and among them the noted Dr. Parr. We give an anecdote of him showing his love of weed and wit.