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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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: ...

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

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

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

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



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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