POETRY OF SMOKK. 



Had you bid me sing of Wouter, 

 He, the onion head, the doubter ! 

 But to rhyme of this one Mocker! 

 Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker? 

 Nay, but where my hand must fail, 

 There the more shall yours avail ; 

 You shall take your brush and paint 

 All that ring of figures quaint, 

 All those Rip Van Winkle jokers, 

 All those solid-looking smokers, 

 Pulling at their pipes of amber, 

 In the dark-beamed Council Chamber 



Only art like yours can touch 

 Shapes so dignified and Dutch ; 

 Only art like yours can show 

 How the pine logs gleam and glow, 

 'Till the firelight laughs and passes 

 'Twixt the tankards and the glasses, 

 Touching with responsive graces 

 All those grave Batavian faces, 

 Making bland and beatific 

 All that session soporific. 



Then I come and write beneath : 

 Boughton, he deserves the wreath ; 

 He can give us form and hue 

 This the Muse can never do ! 



AUSTIN DOBSON, 



