736. Having a piece of bread and taking another is a sign some one is coming hungry. Maine, New York, and Pennsylvania. 737. If you drop a slice of bread with the buttered side up, it is a sign of a visitor. Bathurst, ... Read more of Visitors at Superstitions.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

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

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

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

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

My Cigarette.
My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and...

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

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

Geordie To His Tobacco-pipe.
Good pipe, old friend, old black and colored friend, W...

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

How It Once Was.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, ...

The Duet.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the te...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

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

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

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

If I Were King.
If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies o...



TO MY CIGAR.








Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctor's spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

What though they tell, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner past!
I would reply with reason strong,
They're sweeter while they last.

When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O'er history's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thine I see.

Oft as the snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee earth's masters burn
And smoke and fume around;
And then, like thee, to ashes turn,
And mingle with the ground.

Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,
And Time's the wasting breath
That, late or early, we behold
Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe,
One common doom is passed;
Sweet Nature's works, the swelling globe,
Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now?
A little moving heap,
That soon, like thee, to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus, when my body lieth low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.





Next: KNICKERBOCKER.

Previous: THE SCENT OF A GOOD CIGAR.



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