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Smoking Poems

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

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

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

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

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

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

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

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

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...



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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