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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

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

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

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

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

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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



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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