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Smoking Poems

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

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, ...

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...



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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