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Smoking Poems

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

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

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

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

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

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

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

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...



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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