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Smoking Poems

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

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

Too Great A Sacrifice.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty tho...

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

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

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

Meerschaum.
Come to me, O my meerschaum, For the vile street organ...

The Smoker's Calendar.
When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit ...

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

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

Sweet Smoking Pipe.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion ...

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with ...

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

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

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

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

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

Seasonable Sweets.
"_DON'T BE FLOWERY, JACOB._"--CHARLES DICKENS. When th...

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

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



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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