Mississippi Federal Writers Slave Autobiographies Smith Hodges, Ex-Slave, Pike County FEC Mrs. W.F. Holmes [FANNY SMITH HODGES Berglundtown, Mississippi] Fanny Smith Hodges lives in Berglundtown, in the northern part of town, in t... Read more of Fanny Smith Hodges at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

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

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

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

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...



As oft I fill my faithful pipe,
To while away the moments glad,
With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe,
My mind perceives an image sad,
So that I can but clearly see
How very like it is to me.

My pipe is made of earth and clay,
From which my mortal part is wrought;
I, too, must turn to earth some day.
It often falls, as quick as thought,
And breaks in two,--puts out its flame;
My fate, alas! is but the same!

My pipe I color not, nor paint;
White it remains, and hence 'tis true
That, when in Death's cold arms I faint,
My lips shall wear the ashen hue;
And as it blackens day by day,
So black the grave shall turn my clay!

And when the pipe is put alight
The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes,
And soon dissolves in sunshine bright,
And but the whitened ash remains.
'Tis so man's glory crumble must,
E'en as his body, into dust!

How oft the filler is mislaid;
And, rather than to seek in vain,
I use my finger in its stead,
And fancy as I feel the pain,
If coals can burn to such degree,
How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!

So in tobacco oft I find,
Lessons of such instructive type;
And hence with calm, contented mind
I live, and smoke my faithful pipe
In reverence where'er I roam,--
On land, on water, and at home.



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