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Smoking Poems

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

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

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

Her Brother's Cigarette.
Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes tou...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

Ode To My Pipe.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, ...

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

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

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

A Good Cigar.
Oh, 'tis well and enough, A whiff or a puff From th...

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

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

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

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

Two Other Hearts.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manl...

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

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

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

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

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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