Sometime after Sidney died, his widow, Tillie, was finally able to speak about what a thoughtful and wonderful man her late husband had been. "Sidney thought of everything," she told them. "Just before he died, Sidney called me to his bedside. He... Read more of Funeral arrangements at Free Jokes.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

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

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

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

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

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



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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