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Smoking Poems

To The Rev. Mr. Newton.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand ...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

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

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...

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

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

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

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

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

Ode To Tobacco.
Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Bla...

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

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

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

My Pipe And I.
There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and t...

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



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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