'It is gold, it is gold!' they cried. They drove on through a dark wood, where the chariot lighted up the way and blinded the robbers by its glare; it was more than they could bear. 'It is gold, it is gold!' they cried, and darting fo... Read more of THE LITTLE ROBBER GIRL at Children Stories.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

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

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

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

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

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

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

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

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

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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



MAECENAS BIDS HIS FRIEND TO DINE.








I beg you come to-night and dine.
A welcome waits you, and sound wine,--
The Roederer chilly to a charm,
As Juno's breath the claret warm,
The sherry of an ancient brand.
No Persian pomp, you understand,--
A soup, a fish, two meats, and then
A salad fit for aldermen
(When aldermen, alas the days!
Were really worth their _mayonnaise_);
A dish of grapes whose clusters won
Their bronze in Carolinian sun;
Next, cheese--for you the Neufchatel,
A bit of Cheshire likes me well;
Cafe au lait or coffee black,
With Kirsch or Kuemmel or cognac
(The German band in Irving Place
By this time purple in the face);
Cigars and pipes. These being through,
Friends shall drop in, a very few--
Shakespeare and Milton, and no more.
When these are guests I bolt the door,
With "Not at home" to any one
Excepting Alfred Tennyson.

ANON.





Next: TO MY MEERSCHAUM.

Previous: IN THE OL' TOBACKER PATCH.



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