Ode to Tobacco

Charles Stuart Calverley (1831–1884)

THOU who, when fears attack,

Bid’st 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 neighbors;

Jones—(who, I ’m glad to say,

Asked leave of Mrs. J.)—

Daily absorbs a clay

After his labors.

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!