District: No. 3 [320198] Worker: Daisy Whaley Subject: EX-SLAVE Storyteller: Lindsay Faucette Ex-Slave Church Street, Durham, N. C. [TR: Date Stamp "JUL 2 1937"]... Read more of Lindsey Faucette at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
Privacy
   Home - Smoking Articles - History of Smoking - Poems about Smoking - Giving up Alcohol

Smoking Poems

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

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...



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.



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 2637