569. To dream of raw meat is a sign of ill luck. 570. To dream of eating meat is a sign of sickness. Boston. 571. To see while asleep fresh meats of any kind is a warning of death. Alabama. 572. To dream of blood ... Read more of Miscellaneous at Superstitions.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

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

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

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

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

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

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

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...



SMOKE AND CHESS.








We were sitting at chess as the sun went down;
And he, from his meerschaum's glossy brown,
With a ring of smoke made his king a crown.

The cherry stem, with its amber tip,
Thoughtfully rested on his lip,
As the goblet's rim from which heroes sip.

And, looking out through the early green,
He called on his patron saint, I ween,--
That misty maiden, Saint Nicotine,--

While ever rested that crown so fair,
Poised in the warm and pulseless air,
On the carven chessman's ivory hair.

Dreamily wandered the game along,
Quietly moving at even-song,
While the striving kings stood firm and strong,

Until that one which of late was crowned
Flinched from a knight's determined bound,
And in sullen majesty left the ground,

Reeling back; and it came to pass
That, waiting to mutter no funeral mass,
A bishop had dealt him the _coup de grace_.

And so, as we sat, we reasoned still
Of fate and of fortune, of human will,
And what are the purposes men fulfil.

For we see at last, when the truth arrives,
The moves on the chess-board of our lives,--
That fields may be lost, though the king survives.

Not always he whom the world reveres
Merits its honor or wins its cheers,
Standing the best at the end of the years.

Not always he who has lost the fight
Rises again with the coming light,
Battles anew for his ancient right.

SAMUEL W. DUFFIELD.





Next: INSCRIPTION FOR A TOBACCO JAR.

Previous: SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.



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