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Smoking Poems

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

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

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

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

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

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

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

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

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

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

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

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

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

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...



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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