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Smoking Poems

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

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

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

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

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

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

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

My Cigarette.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry...

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

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

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

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

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...



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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