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Smoking Poems

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

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

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

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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



IN WREATHS OF SMOKE.








In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise,
Faces of olden days uprise,
And in his dreamers revery
They haunt the smoker's brain, and he
Breathes for the past regretful sighs.

Mem'ries of maids, with azure eyes,
In dewy dells, 'neath June's soft skies,
Faces that more he'll only see
In wreaths of smoke.

Eheu, eheu! how fast Time flies,--
How youth-time passion droops and dies,
And all the countless visions flee!
How worn would all those faces be,
Were they not swathed in soft disguise
In wreaths of smoke!

FRANK NEWTON HOLMAN.





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Previous: ANOTHER MATCH.



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