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Smoking Poems

The Cigar.
Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far;...

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

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

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

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

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

What I Like.
To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the ...

To See Her Pipe Awry.
Betty bouncer kept a stall At the corner of a street...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

A Poet's Pipe.
_FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE._ A poet's pipe...

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

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

On A Tobacco Jar.
Three hundred years ago or soe, One worthy knight an...

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

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

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

The Old Clay Pipe.
There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, ...

The Dreamer's Pipe.
Meerschaum, thing with amber tip, Clutched between the...

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



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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