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Smoking Poems

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

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

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...

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...



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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