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Smoking Poems

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

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

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

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

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

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

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

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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



EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER.








Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire,
Your fame to raise,
Upon its blaze,
Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre!
Tempting Fate's stroke;
Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke.
Safe in my chair from wounds and woe,
_My_ fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow.

Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs,
The public smokes,
You and your hoax,
And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs.
Ye through the nose
Pay for each puff; when mine the same way flows,
It does not run me into debt;
And thus, the more I fume, the less I fret.

Authors! created to be puff'd to death,
And fill the mouth
Of some uncouth
Bookselling wight, who sucks your brains and breath,
Your leaves thus far
(Without its fire) resemble my cigar;
But vapid, uninspired, and flat:
When, when, O Bards, will ye _compose_ like _that_?

Since life and the anxieties that share
Our hopes and trust,
Are smoke and dust,
Give me the smoke and dust that banish care.
The roll'd leaf bring,
Which from its ashes, Phoenix-like, can spring;
The fragrant leaf whose magic balm
Can, like Nepenthe, all our sufferings charm.

Oh, what supreme beatitude is this!
What soft and sweet
Sensations greet
My soul, and wrap it in Elysian bliss!
I soar above
Dull earth in these ambrosial clouds, like Jove,
And from my empyrean height
Look down upon the world with calm delight.

HORACE SMITH.





Next: A POT, AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Previous: CIGARS AND BEER.



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