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Smoking Poems

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

Smoking Away.
Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow...

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

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

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

"keats Took Snuff."
"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the ...

Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

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

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

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...


When that last pipe is smoked at last
And pouch and pipe put by,
And Smoked and Smoker both alike
In dust and ashes lie,
What of the Smoker? Whither passed?
Ah, will he smoke no more?
And will there be no golden cloud
Upon the golden shore?
Ah! who shall say we cry in vain
To Fate upon his hill,
For, howsoe'er we ask and ask,
He goes on smoking still.
But, surely, 'twere a bitter thing
If other men pursue
Their various earthly joys again
Beyond that distant blue,
If the poor Smoker might not ply
His peaceful passion too.
If Indian braves may still up there
On merry scalpings go,
And buried Britons rise again
With arrow and with bow,
May not the Smoker hope to take
His "cutty" from below?
So let us trust; and when at length
You lay me 'neath the yew,
Forget not, O my friends, I pray,
Pipes and tobacco too!




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