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Smoking Poems

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

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

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

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



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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