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Smoking Poems

She.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint! Around my pretty...

My After-dinner Cloud.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude...

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

My Little Brown Pipe.
I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: ...

Confession Of A Cigar Smoker.
I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole...

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

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

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

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

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

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

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...

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

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

A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Let the learned talk of books, The glutton...

"a Free Puff."
Do you remember when first we met? I was turning twent...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

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



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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