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Smoking Poems

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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

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

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

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

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

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

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

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

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

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

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

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



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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