WILLIAM COX BENNETT Blow, wind, blow, Sing through yard and shroud; Pipe it shrilly and loud, Aloft as well as below; Sing in my sailor's ear The song I sing to you, Come home, my sailor true, F... Read more of A Christmas Song at Christmas Story.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...



A POET'S PIPE.








_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._


A poet's pipe am I,
And my Abyssinian tint
Is an unmistakable hint
That he lays me not often by.
When his soul is with grief o'erworn
I smoke like the cottage where
They are cooking the evening fare
For the laborer's return.

I enfold and cradle his soul
In the vapors moving and blue
That mount from my fiery mouth;
And there is power in my bowl
To charm his spirit and soothe,
And heal his weariness too.

RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.





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Previous: WITH PIPE AND BOOK.



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