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Smoking Poems

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...



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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