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Smoking Poems

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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


Some sombre evening, when I sit
And feed in solitude at home,
Perchance an ultra-bilious fit
Paints all the world an orange chrome.

When Fear and Care and grim Despair
Flock round me in a ghostly crowd,
One charm dispels them all in air,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

'Tis melancholy to devour
The gentle chop in loneliness.
I look on six--my prandial hour--
With dread not easy to express.

And yet for every penance done,
Due compensation seems allow'd.
My penance o'er, its price is won,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

My clay is _not_ a Henry Clay,--
I like it better on the whole;
And when I fill it, I can say,
I drown my sorrows in the bowl.

For most I love my lowly pipe
When weary, sad, and leaden-brow'd;
At such a time behold me ripe
To blow my after-dinner cloud.

As gracefully the smoke ascends
In columns from the weed beneath,
My friendly wizard, Fancy, lends
A vivid shape to every wreath.

Strange memories of life or death
Up from the cradle to the shroud,
Come forth as, with enchanter's breath,
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

What wonder if it stills my care
To quit the present for the past,
And summon back the things that were,
Which only thus in vapor last?

What wonder if I envy not
The rich, the giddy, and the proud,
Contented in this quiet spot
To blow my after-dinner cloud?



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