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Smoking Poems

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

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

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

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

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

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

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

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

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

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

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

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

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

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

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



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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