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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

The Last Pipe.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

Pernicious Weed!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a s...

Invocation To Tobacco.
Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth, Killer ...

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

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

Henry Fielding.
Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. Wh...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

A Farewell To Tobacco.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammeri...

Maecenas Bids His Friend To Dine.
I beg you come to-night and dine. A welcome waits you, a...

My Friendly Pipe.
Let sybarites still dream delights While smoking cig...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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


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.




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