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Smoking Poems

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

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

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

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

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

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

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...



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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