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Smoking Poems

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

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

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

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...



CIGARS AND BEER.








Here
With my beer
I sit,
While golden moments flit.
Alas!
They pass
Unheeded by;
And, as they fly,
I,
Being dry,
Sit idly sipping here
My beer.

Oh, finer far
Than fame or riches are
The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar!
Why
Should I
Weep, wail, or sigh?
What if luck has passed me by?
What if my hopes are dead,
My pleasures fled?
Have I not still
My fill
Of right good cheer,--
Cigars and beer?

Go, whining youth,
Forsooth!
Go, weep and wail,
Sigh and grow pale,
Weave melancholy rhymes
On the old times,
Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,--
But leave me to my beer!
Gold is dross,
Love is loss;
So, if I gulp my sorrows down,
Or see them drown
In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,
Then do I wear the crown
Without a cross!

GEORGE ARNOLD.





Next: EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER.

Previous: TO MY CIGAR.



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