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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

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

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

Edifying Reflections Of A Tobacco-smoker.
_SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. TRANS...

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



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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