There was once a widow who had two daughters, one named Rose and the other Blanche. Blanche was good and beautiful and gentle, but the mother cared nothing for her and gave her only hard words and harder blows; but she loved Rose as she lo... Read more of The Talking Eggs - A Story From Louisiana at Urban Myths.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

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

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

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

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

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...



EDIFYING REFLECTIONS OF A TOBACCO-SMOKER.








_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANSLATED BY
EDWARD BRECK._



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.





Next: THE LOST LOTUS.

Previous: INGIN SUMMER.



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