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Smoking Poems

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

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

I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

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

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

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

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...


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.




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