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Smoking Poems

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

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

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

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

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

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

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

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

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

The Betrothed.
"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._" Open the ...

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

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

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

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...



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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