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Smoking Poems

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

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

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

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

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...



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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