ODE II. AN ENGLISH SAPPHIC, IN PRAISE OF SNUFF AND TOBACCO.
I've gŏt th'hēad-āche: gīve mĕ thĕn, bōy thĕ snūff-box,
Fīll'd wĭth Hōare's bēst snūff, ă rĕvīvĭng mīxture,
Bēst ŏf āll snūffs: thāt wĭll rĕlīeve mĕ mōre than
Strāsbŭrgh ōr Hārdham's.
That relieves much more than the Irish Blackguard,
That relieves much more than Bureau or Scotch snuff,
More than herbs all British, and tickles noses
Better than any.
Snuff relieves th'head, more than do rum or brandy,
More than Old Port, more than Champaigne, tho' sparkling;
They can make th'head, like a November fog-day,
Muddy or madsome.
Ladies fair, know all, it will cure the hippo,
(I have tried this often) believe me, ladies,
More than all teas, be they the Bohea, Souchong,
Gunpowder, Hyson.
Hear me, pray now, poets, and try it freely,
Snuff inspires me, makes even me a poet:
Mark, too, oh! sage critics; I chant my sapphics,
Gay as a robin.
Take away that whisky-cup, tipp'd with silver,
Tho', perchance, that makes us a little frisky;
Yet, if made too free with, the stoutest Scotchman
That can lay sprawling.
Move then round this box, let it go round briskly,
What was mead, what nectar, to gods and heroes,
That may all snuff find in the nose and head-piece,
Full of electric.
Yet not snuff, Hoare's mixture, alone inspires me:
Sweet is Hoare's snuff, sweeter is Hoare's tobacco,
Leaf of gold most precious, more than op'um,
Giving me visions.
Bring me, boy, bring tube, than the lily whiter,
Made of pure clay, tapering, long, and wax'd well,
Now I drink most merrily, gay as th'Hindoo,
Proud as a Turkman.
Now the fire bright kindles in tube resplendent,
Now the smoke see rise to the ceiling curling!
Does not my verse sparkle too? See! the sapphics
Soar up as freely.
Let who will snarl, saying, my verse is smoky;
Where there's smoke, there's fire, as in mighty Milton:
Did the grave heroics not scorn tobacco?
Why should the sapphics?
