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Smoking Poems

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

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

A Valentine.
What's my love's name? Guess her name. Nina? No....

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

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

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

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

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

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

A Loss.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love an...

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

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

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

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



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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