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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

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

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

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...



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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