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Smoking Poems

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

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

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

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

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

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

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



MY LITTLE BROWN PIPE.








I have a little comforter,
I carry in my pocket:
It is not any woman's face
Set in a golden locket;
It is not any kind of purse;
It is not book or letter,
But yet at times I really think
That it is something better.

Oh, my pipe, my little brown pipe!
How oft, at morning early,
When vexed with thoughts of coming toil,
And just a little surly,
I sit with thee till things get clear,
And all my plans grow steady,
And I can face the strife of life
With all my senses steady.

No matter if my temper stands
At stormy, fair, or clearing,
My pipe has not for any mood
A word of angry sneering.
I always find it just the same,
In care, or joy, or sorrow,
And what it is to-day I know
It's sure to be to-morrow.

It helps me through the stress of life;
It balances my losses;
It adds a charm to all my joys,
And lightens all my crosses.
For through the wreathing, misty veil
Joy has a softer splendor,
And life grows sweetly possible,
And love more truly tender.

Oh, I have many richer joys!
I do not underrate them,
And every man knows what I mean,
I do not need to state them.
But this I say,--I'd rather miss
A deal of what's called pleasure,
Than lose my little comforter,
My little smoky treasure.

AMELIA E. BARR.




Forsaken of all comforts but these two,--
My fagot and my pipe--I sit to muse
On all my crosses, and almost excuse
The heavens for dealing with me as they do.
When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow,
Such cheerful expectations doth infuse
As makes me think ere long I cannot choose
But be some grandee, whatsoe'er I'm now.
But having spent my pipe, I then perceive
That hopes and dreams are cousins,--both deceive.
Then mark I this conclusion in my mind,
It's all one thing,--both tend into one scope,--
To live upon Tobacco and on Hope:
The one's but smoke, the other is but wind.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.





Next: 'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.

Previous: ON RECEIPT OF A RARE PIPE.



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