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Smoking Poems

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

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...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

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

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...



THE SMOKER'S CALENDAR.








When January's cold appears,
A glowing pipe my spirit cheers;
And still it glads the length'ning day
'Neath February's milder sway.
When March's keener winds succeed,
What charms me like the burning weed
When April mounts the solar car,
I join him, puffing a cigar;
And May, so beautiful and bright,
Still finds the pleasing weed a-light.
To balmy zephyrs it gives zest
When June in gayest livery's drest.
Through July, Flora's offspring smile,
But still Nicotia's can beguile;
And August, when its fruits are ripe,
Matures my pleasure in a pipe.
September finds me in the garden,
Communing with a long churchwarden.
Even in the wane of dull October
I smoke my pipe and sip my "robar."
November's soaking show'rs require
The smoking pipe and blazing fire.
The darkest day in drear December's--
That's lighted by their glowing embers.

ANON.





Next: AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.

Previous: CONFESSION OF A CIGAR SMOKER.



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