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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

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

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

To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

Seasonable Sweets.

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


Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
Boughton, had you bid me chant
Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant,
Had you bid me sing of Wouter,
He, the onion head, the doubter!
But to rhyme of this one--Mocker!
Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?
Nay, but where my hand must fail,
There the more shall yours avail;
You shall take your brush and paint
All that ring of figures quaint,--
All those Rip Van Winkle jokers,
All those solid-looking smokers,
Pulling at their pipes of amber,
In the dark-beamed Council Chamber.

Only art like yours can touch
Shapes so dignified--and Dutch;
Only art like yours can show
How the pine logs gleam and glow,
Till the firelight laughs and passes
'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,
Touching with responsive graces
All those grave Batavian faces,
Making bland and beatific
All that session soporific.

Then I come and write beneath:
Boughton, he deserves the wreath;
He can give us form and hue--
This the Muse can never do!



Previous: TO MY CIGAR.

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