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Smoking Poems

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

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

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

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...



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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