WHEN first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall The clanking fetters of the slave! In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold, And childhood with its locks of gold,... Read more of Abolition Of Slavery In The District Of Columbia, 1862 at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...



CANNON SONG.








And it has turned since you and I
Set out to face the world alone;
And, in a garret near the sky,
Had scarce a crust to call our own,
But many a banquet, Barmecide;
And many a dream of hope divine,
Lie buried in the moaning tide,
That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!

But prosing isn't quite the thing,
And so, I guess, I'll give it up:
Just wait a moment while I sing;
We'll have another parting cup,
And then to bed. The stars are low;
Yon sickly moon has ceased to shine;
So here she goes, and off we go
To Slumberland, old pipe of mine!

JOHN J. GORMLEY.





Next: CANNON SONG.

Previous: OLD PIPE OF MINE.



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