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Smoking Poems

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

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

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

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

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

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

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

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...



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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