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Smoking Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epitaph
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OV...

Chibouque.
At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his pala...

Cannon Song.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest...

Ingin Summer.
Jest about the time when Fall Gits to rattlin' in th...

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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

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

To The Tobacco Pipe.
Dear piece of fascinating clay! 'Tis thine to smooth l...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

Virginia's Kingly Plant.
_BY AN "OLD SALT."_ Oh, muse! grant me the power (I...

Wrongfellow.
I like cigars Beneath the stars, Upon the water...

The Smoke Traveller.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish g...



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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