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Smoking Poems

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

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

Sublime Tobacco.
But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breath...

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

Acrostic.
To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles, O'er cankere...

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...

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

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

To C.f. Bradford.
_ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE._ The pipe came safe...

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

Clouds.
Mortals say their heart is light When the clouds aroun...

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

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

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

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



TO AN OLD PIPE.








Once your smoothly polished face
Nestled lightly in a case;
'Twas a jolly cosy place,
I surmise;

And a zealous subject blew
On your cheeks, until they grew
To the fascinating hue
Of her eyes.

Near a rusty-hilted sword,
Now upon my mantel-board,
Where my curios are stored,
You recline.

You were pleasant company when
By the scribbling of her pen
I was sent the ways of men
To repine.

Tell me truly (you were there
When she ceased that debonair
Correspondence and affair)
I suppose

That she laughed and smiled all day;
Or did gentle tear-drops stray
Down her charming _retroussee_
Little nose?

Where the sunbeams, coyly still,
Fall upon the mantel-sill,
You perpetually will
Silence woo;

And I fear that she herself,
By the little chubby elf.
Will be laid upon the shelf
Just as you.

DE WITT STERRY.





Next: TITLEPAGE DEDICATION.

Previous: THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER'S LAMENT.



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