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Smoking Poems

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

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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

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...

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

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

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

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

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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



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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