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Smoking Poems

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

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

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

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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

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

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

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

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

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

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

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

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



MY PIPE AND I.








There may be comrades in this world,
As stanch and true as steel.
There are: and by their friendships firm
Is life made only real.
But, after all, of all these hearts
That close with mine entwine,
None lie so near, nor seem so dear
As this old pipe of mine.

My silent friend--whose voice is held
Fast for my ear alone--
Stays with me always, well content,
With Darby to be Joan.
No fickleness disturbs our lot;
No jars its peace to smother;
Ah, no; my faithful pipe and I
Have wooed and won--each other.

On clouds of curling incense sweet,
We go--my pipe and I--
To lands far off, where skies stay blue
Through all the years that fly.
And nights and days, with rosy dreams
Teems bright--an endless throng
That passing leave, in echoing wake,
Soft murmurings of song.

Does this dream fade? Another comes
To fill its place and more.
In castles silvern roam we now,
They're ours! All! All are ours!
What'er the wreathing rings enfold
Drops shimmering golden showers!

No sordid cost our steps can stay,
We travel free as air.
Our wings are fancies, incense-borne,
That feather-light upbear.
Begone! ye powers of steam and flood.
Thy roads creep far too slow;
We need thee not. My pipe and I
Swifter than Time must go.

Why, what is this? The pipe gone out?
Well, well, the fire's out, too!
The dreams are gone--we're poor once more;
Life's pain begins anew.
'Tis time for sleep, my faithful pipe,
But may thy dreamings be,
Through slumbering hours hued as bright
As those thou gav'st to me!

ELTON J. BUCKLEY.





Next: SIC TRANSIT.

Previous: A WINTER EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE.



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