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Smoking Poems

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

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

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

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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

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

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



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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