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Smoking Poems

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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

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

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

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

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

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

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

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

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

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...



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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