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Smoking Poems

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

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

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

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

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

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...



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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