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Smoking Poems

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

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

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

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

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...

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

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

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

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

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



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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