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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

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

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

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

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

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

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...



MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.








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?

HENRY S. LEIGH.





Next: THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.

Previous: LATAKIA.



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