A LARGE, well established, Canadian lumber camp advertised that they were looking for a good lumberjack. The very next day, a skinny little guy showed up at the camp with his axe, and knocked on the head lumberjacks' door. The head lumberjack too... Read more of The lumberjack at Free Jokes.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

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



KNICKERBOCKER.








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!

AUSTIN DOBSON.





Next: THE DISCOVERY OF TOBACCO.

Previous: TO MY CIGAR.



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