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Smoking Poems

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

Titlepage Dedication.
"Let those smoke now who never smoked before, And those ...

My Meerschaums.
Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High...

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

The Ballad Of The Pipe.
Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a st...

A Bachelor's Views.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least ...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...

My Cigarette.
_WORDS AND MUSIC BY RICHARD BARNARD_. To my sweet ciga...

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

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

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

An Encomium On Tobacco.
Thrice happy isles that stole the world's delight, And...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

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

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

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...



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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