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Smoking Poems

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

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

Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

I. When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wiz...

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

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

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

The Latest Convert.
I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Ne...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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


Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh,
Briton of the truest type,
When that too devoted valet
Quenched your first-recorded pipe,
Were you pondering the opinion,
As you watched the airy coil,
That the virtue of Virginia
Might be bred in British soil?

You transplanted the potato,
'Twas a more enduring gift
Than the wisdom of a Plato
To our poverty and thrift.
That respected root has flourished
Nobly for a nation's need,
But our brightest dreams are nourished
Ever on a foreign weed.

From the deepest meditation
Of the philosophic scribe,
From the poet's inspiration,
For the cynic's polished gibe,
We invoke narcotic nurses
In their jargon from afar,
I indite these modest verses
On a polyglot cigar.

Leaf that lulls a Turkish Aga
May a scholar's soul renew,
Fancy spring from Larranaga,
History from honey-dew.
When the teacher and the tyro
Spirit-manna fondly seek,
'Tis the cigarette from Cairo,
Or a compound from the Greek.

But no British-born aroma
Is fit incense to the Queen,
Nature gives her best diploma
To the alien nicotine.
We are doomed to her ill-favor,
For the plant that's native grown
Has a patriotic flavor
Too exclusively our own.

O my country, could your smoker
Boast your "shag," or even "twist,"
Every man were mediocre
Save the blest tobacconist!
He will point immortal morals,
Make all common praises mute,
Who shall win our grateful laurels
With a national cheroot.

_The St. James Gazette_.



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