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Smoking Poems

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

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

Latakia.
I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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

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

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

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

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

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

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

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

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

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

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

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

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...



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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