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Smoking Poems

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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...

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

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

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: ...

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...



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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