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Smoking Poems

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

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

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

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

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

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

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

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

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

My Three Loves.
When Life was all a summer day, And I was under twenty...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

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



THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.








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!

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.





Next: SWEET SMOKING PIPE.

Previous: MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.



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