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Smoking Poems

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

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

On Receipt Of A Rare Pipe.
I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the ...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

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

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

Knickerbocker.
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knic...

Tobacco.
Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love...

Another Match.
_AFTER A.C. SWINBURNE._ If love were dhudeen olden, ...

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

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

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

In Wreaths Of Smoke.
In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise, Faces of o...

The Happy Smoking-ground.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and ...

Smoking Song.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist ...

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

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

The Discovery Of Tobacco.
_A SAILOR'S VERSION_. They were three jolly sailors bo...



TO THE TOBACCO PIPE.








Dear piece of fascinating clay!
'Tis thine to smooth life's rugged way,
To give a happiness unknown
To those--who let a pipe alone;
Thy tube can best the vapors chase,
By raising--others in their place;
Can give the face staid Wisdom's air,
And teach the lips--to ope with care;
'Tis hence thou art the truest friend
(Where least is said there's least to mend),
And he who ventures many a joke
Had better oft be still and smoke.

Whatever giddy foplings think,
Thou giv'st the highest zest to drink.
When fragrant clouds thy fumes exhale,
And hover round the nut-brown ale,
Who thinks of claret or champagne?
E'en burgundy were pour'd in vain.

'Tis not in city smoke alone,
Midst fogs and glooms thy charms are known.
With thee, at morn, the rustic swain
Tracks o'er the snow-besprinkled plain,
To seek some neighb'ring copse's side,
And rob the woodlands of their pride:
With thee, companion of his toil,
His active spirits ne'er recoil;
Though hard his daily task assign'd,
He bears it with an equal mind.

The fisher 'board some little bark,
When all around is drear and dark,
With shortened pipe beguiles the hour,
Though bleak the wind and cold the show'r,
Nor thinks the morn's approach too slow,
Regardless of what tempests blow.
Midst hills of sand, midst ditches, dikes,
Midst cannons, muskets, halberts, pikes;
With thee, as still, Mynheer can stay,
As Neddy 'twixt two wisps of hay;
Heedless of Britain and of France,
Smokes on--and looks to the main chance.

And sure the solace thou canst give
Must make thy fame unrivalled live,
So long as men can temper clay
(For as thou art, e'en so are they),
The sun mature the Indian weed,
And rolling years fresh sorrows breed.

From _The Meteors_, London.





Next: THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER'S LAMENT.

Previous: ON A TOBACCO JAR.



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