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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

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



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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