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Smoking Poems

With Pipe And Book.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, Oh, what is sweete...

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

Pipe And Tobacco.
When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need n...

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

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

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

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

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

A Bachelor's Soliloquy.
I sit all alone with my pipe by the fire, I ne'er kn...

Old Pipe Of Mine.
Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twix...

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

Smoke And Chess.
We were sitting at chess as the sun went down; And he,...

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

He Respondeth.
SHE. You still persist in using, I observe with g...

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

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

Inscription For A Tobacco Jar.
Keep me at hand; and as my fumes arise, You'll find _a...

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

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



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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