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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

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

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

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

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

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

Cigars And Beer.
Here With my beer I sit, While g...

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

It May Be Weeds.
It may be weeds I've gathered too; But even weeds...

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

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

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

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

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

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

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



THE OLD CLAY PIPE.








There's a lot of solid comfort
In an old clay pipe, I find,
If you're kind of out of humor
Or in trouble in your mind.
When you're feeling awful lonesome
And don't know just what to do,
There's a heap of satisfaction
If you smoke a pipe or two.

The ten thousand pleasant memories
That are buried in your soul
Are playing hide and seek with you
Around that smoking bowl.
These are mighty restful moments:
You're at peace with all the world,
And the panorama changes
As the thin blue smoke is curled.

Now you cross the bridge of sorrows,
Now you enter pleasant lands,
And before an open doorway,
You will linger to shake hands
With a lithe and girlish figure
That is coming through the door;
Ah! you recognize the features:
You have seen that face before.

You are at the dear old homestead
Where you spent those happy years;
You are romping with the children;
You are smiling through your tears;
You have fought and whipped the bully
You are eight and he is ten.
Oh! how rapidly we travel,--
You are now a boy again.

You approach the open doorway,
And before the old armchair
You will stop and kiss the grandma,
You will smooth the thin white hair;
You will read the open Bible,
For the lamp is lit, you see.
It is now your hour for bed-time
And you kneel at mother's knee.

Still you linger at the hearthstone;
You are loath to leave the place.
When an apple cut's in progress:
You must wait and dance with Grace.

What's the matter with the music?
Only this: The pipe is broke,
And a thousand pleasant fancies
Vanish promptly with the smoke.

A.B. VAN FLEET.





Next: PERNICIOUS WEED!

Previous: THE BALLAD OF THE PIPE.



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