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Smoking Poems

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

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

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

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



MY CIGAR.








In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy,
And for every little pleasure has some pathologic bogy,
Who will bear with no small vices, and grows dismally prophetic
If I wander from the weary way of virtue dietetic;

In spite of dire forewarnings that my brains will all be scattered,
My memory extinguished, and my nervous system shattered,
That my hand will take to trembling, and my heart begin to flutter,
My digestion turn a rebel to my very bread and butter;

As I puff this mild Havana, and its ashes slowly lengthen,
I feel my courage gather and my resolution strengthen:
I will smoke, and I will praise you, my cigar, and I will light you
With tobacco-phobic pamphlets by the learned prigs who fight you!

Let him who has a mistress to her eyebrow write a sonnet,
Let the lover of a lily pen a languid ode upon it;
In such sentimental subjects I'm a Philistine and cynic,
And prefer the inspiration drawn from sources nicotinic.

So I sing of you, dear product of (I trust you are) Havana,
And if there's any question as to how my verses scan, a
Reason is my shyness in the Muses' aid invoking,
As, like other ancient maidens, they perchance object to smoking.

I have learnt with you the wisdom of contemplative quiescence,
While the world is in a ferment of unmeaning effervescence,
That its jar and rush and riot bring no good one-half so sterling
As your fleecy clouds of fragrance that are now about me curling.

So, let stocks go up or downward, and let politicians wrangle,
Let the parsons and philosophers grope in a wordy tangle,
Let those who want them scramble for their dignities or dollars,
Be millionnaires or magnates, or senators or scholars.

I will puff my mild Havana, and I quietly will query,
Whether, when the strife is over, and the combatants are weary,
Their gains will be more brilliant than its faint expiring flashes,
Or more solid than this panful of its dead and sober ashes.

ARTHUR W. GUNDRY.





Next: TO C.F. BRADFORD.

Previous: A POET'S PIPE.



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