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Smoking Poems

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

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

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

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

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

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

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

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...



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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