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Smoking Poems

My Pipe.
When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me; When fr...

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

My Meerschaum Pipe.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred an...

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

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

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

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

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

My Cigarette.

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

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

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

A Brief Puff Of Smoke.
Great Doctor Parr, the learned Whig, Ne'er deemed the ...

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

The Ballade Of Tobacco.
When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets ou...

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...

Sic Transit.
Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of ...

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

Virginia Tobacco.
Two maiden dames of sixty-two Together long had dwel...


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.



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