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Smoking Poems

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

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

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

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



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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