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Smoking Poems

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

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

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

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

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

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

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

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

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

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

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

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

A Winter Evening Hymn To My Fire.
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grape's bewil...



THE BALLAD OF THE PIPE.








Oh, give me but Virginia's weed,
An earthen bowl, a stem of reed,
What care I for the weather?
Though winter freeze and summer broil
We rest us from our days of toil
My Pipe and I together!

Like to a priest of sacred fane,
I nightly light the glow again
With reverence and pleasure;
For through this plain and modest bowl
I coax sweet mem'ry to my soul
And many trippings measure!

There's comfort in each puff of smoke,
Defiance to ill-fortune's stroke
And happiness forever!
There grows a volume full of thought
And humor, than the book you bought
Holds nothing half so clever!

The summer fragrance, all pent up
Among the leaves, is here sent up
In dreams of summer glory;
And these blue clouds that slowly rise
Were colored by the summer skies,
And tell a summer story.

And oh! the happiest, sweetest times
Come ringing all their silver chimes
Of merry songs and laughter;
And all that may be well and worth
For Mother Future to bring forth
I do imagine after.

What care I if my poor means
Clad not my walls with splendid scenes
And pictures by the masters;
Here in the curling smoke-wreath glow
Bold hills and lovely vales below,
And brooks with nodding asters.

All that on earth is fair and fine,
This fragrant magic makes it mine,
And gives me sole dominion;
And if you call me fanciful,
I only take a stronger pull,
And laugh at your opinion.

Let others fret and fume with care,
'Tis easy finding everywhere,
But happiness is rarer;
And if I find it sweet and ripe,
In this tobacco and my pipe,
I'll count it all the fairer.

Then give me but Virginia's weed,
An earthen bowl, a stem of reed,
What care I for the weather?
Though winter freeze, or summer broil
We rest us from the days of toil,
My Pipe and I together.

HERMANN RAVE.





Next: THE OLD CLAY PIPE.

Previous: "KEATS TOOK SNUFF."



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