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Smoking Poems

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
'Twas in the days of good Queen Bess,-- Or p'raps a ...

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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

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

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...

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

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



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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