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Smoking Poems

The Scent Of A Good Cigar.
What is it comes through the deepening dusk,-- Somethi...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

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

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

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

Motto For A Tobacco Jar.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the...

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

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

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

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

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

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

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

A Symphony In Smoke.
A pretty, piquant, pouting pet, Who likes to muse and ...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

To My Cigar.
Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doc...

The Patriotic Smoker's Lament.
Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh, Briton of the true...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...



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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