THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER'S LAMENT.

Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the truest type, When that too devoted valet Quenched your first-recorded pipe, Were you pondering the opinion, As you watched the airy coil, That the virtue of Virginia Might be bred in British soil? You transplanted the potato, 'Twas a more enduring gift Than the wisdom of a Plato To our poverty and thrift. That respected root has flourished Nobly for a nation's need, But our brightest dreams are nourished Ever on a foreign weed. From the deepest meditation Of the philosophic scribe, From the poet's inspiration, For the cynic's polished gibe, We invoke narcotic nurses In their jargon from afar, I indite these modest verses On a polyglot cigar. Leaf that lulls a Turkish Aga May a scholar's soul renew, Fancy spring from Larranaga, History from honey-dew. When the teacher and the tyro Spirit-manna fondly seek, 'Tis the cigarette from Cairo, Or a compound from the Greek. But no British-born aroma Is fit incense to the Queen, Nature gives her best diploma To the alien nicotine. We are doomed to her ill-favor, For the plant that's native grown Has a patriotic flavor Too exclusively our own. O my country, could your smoker Boast your "shag," or even "twist," Every man were mediocre Save the blest tobacconist! He will point immortal morals, Make all common praises mute, Who shall win our grateful laurels With a national cheroot.