An old man named Daniel Baker, living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected by his neighbors of having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission to pass the night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling was more common in the Wes... Read more of Present At A Hanging at Scary Stories.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

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

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

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

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

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...



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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