Ode to Tobacco

From “Fly Leaves”

THOU, who, when fears attack,

Bidst them avaunt, and black

Care, at the horseman’s back

Perching, unseatest;

Sweet when the morn is gray,

Sweet when they’ve cleared away

Lunch; and at close of day

Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old

For thee, though manifold

Stories, I know, are told

Not to thy credit:

How one (or two at most)

Drops make a cat a ghost—

Useless except to roast—

Doctors have said it.

How they who use fusees

All grow by slow degrees

Brainless as chimpanzees,

Meagre as lizards;

Go mad, and beat their wives;

Plunge (after shocking lives),

Razors and carving-knives

Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six

Smokers who freely mix

Still with their neighbours.

Jones (who, I’m glad to say,

Asked leave of Mrs. J.)

Daily absorbs a clay

After his labours.

Cats may have had their goose

Cooked by tobacco-juice;

Still why deny its use

Thoughtfully taken?

We’re not as tabbies are.

Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here’s to thee, Bacon!