Pipe and Pouch: The Smoker's Own Book of Poetry

TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED. This Indian weed, now withered quite. Tho' green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay, All flesh is hay: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The pipe, so lily-like and weak, Does thus thy mortal state bespeak; Thou art e'en such— Gone with a touch: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And when the smoke ascends on high, Then thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff— Gone with a puff: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And when the pipe grows foul within, Think on thy soul defiled with sin; For then the fire It doth require: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. And seest the ashes cast away, Then to thyself thou mayest say, That to the dust Return thou must: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. PART II. Was this small plant for thee cut down? So was the Plant of Great Renown, Which Mercy sends For nobler ends: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. Does juice medicinal proceed From such a naughty foreign weed? Then what's the power Of Jesse's Flower? Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The promise, like the pipe, inlays, And by the mouth of faith conveys What virtue flows From Sharon's Rose: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. In vain the unlighted pipe you blow; Your pains in outward means are so, 'Till heavenly fire Your heart inspire: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. The smoke, like burning incense, towers: So should a praying heart of yours, With ardent cries, Surmount the skies: Thus think, and smoke tobacco. TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED. Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut down at eve; It shows decay; we are but clay; Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so lily white, Wherein so many take delight, Is broke with a touch,—man's life is such; Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so foul within Shows how man's soul is stained with sin, And then the fire it doth require; Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The ashes that are left behind Do serve to put us all in mind That unto dust return we must; Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The smoke that does so high ascend Shews us man's life must have an end; The vapor's gone,—man's life is done; Think of this when you smoke tobacco. From " Pills to Purge Melancholy ." TOBACCO. Let poets rhyme of what they will, Youth, Beauty, Love, or Glory, still My theme shall be Tobacco! Hail, weed, eclipsing every flow'r, Of thee I fain would make my bow'r, When fortune frowns, or tempests low'r, Mild comforter of woe! They say in truth an angel's foot First brought to life thy precious root, The source of every pleasure! Descending from the skies he press'd With hallowed touch Earth's yielding breast; Forth sprang the plant, and then was bless'd, As man's chief treasure! Throughout the world who knows thee not? Of palace and of lowly cot The universal guest,— The friend of Gentile, Turk, and Jew, To all a stay, to none untrue, The balm that can our ills subdue, And soothe us into rest! With thee the poor man can abide Oppression, want, the scorn of pride, The curse of penury. Companion of his lonely state, He is no longer desolate, And still can brave an adverse fate With honest worth and thee! All honor to the patriot bold Who brought, instead of promised gold, Thy leaf to Britain's shore. It cost him life; but thou shalt raise A cloud of fragrance to his praise, And bards shall hail in deathless lays The valiant knight of yore. Ay, Raleigh! thou wilt live till Time Shall ring his last oblivious chime, The fruitful theme of story; And man in ages hence shall tell How greatness, virtue, wisdom, fell, When England sounded out thy knell, And dimmed her ancient glory. And thou, O plant! shalt keep his name Unwithered in the scroll of fame, And teach us to remember; He gave with thee content and peace, Bestow'd on life a longer lease, And bidding every trouble cease, Made summer of December. THOMAS JONES. THE CIGAR. Some sigh for this and that, My wishes don't go far; The world may wag at will, So I have my cigar. Some fret themselves to death With Whig and Tory jar; I don't care which is in, So I have my cigar. Sir John requests my vote, And so does Mr. Marr; I don't care how it goes, So I have my cigar. Some want a German row, Some wish a Russian war; I care not. I'm at peace So I have my cigar. I never see the "Post," I seldom read the "Star;" The "Globe" I scarcely heed, So I have my cigar. Honors have come to men My juniors at the Bar; No matter—I can wait, So I have my cigar. Ambition frets me not; A cab or glory's car Are just the same to me, So I have my cigar. I worship no vain gods, But serve the household Lar; I'm sure to be at home, So I have my cigar. I do not seek for fame, A general with a scar; A private let me be, So I have my cigar. To have my choice among The toys of life's bazaar, The deuce may take them all So I have my cigar. Some minds are often tost By tempests like a tar; I always seem in port, So I have my cigar. The ardent flame of love, My bosom cannot char, I smoke but do not burn, So I have my cigar. They tell me Nancy Low Has married Mr. R.; The jilt! but I can live, So I have my cigar. THOMAS HOOD. PIPE AND TOBACCO. When my pipe burns bright and clear, The gods I need not envy here; And as the smoke fades in the wind, Our fleeting life it brings to mind. Noble weed! that comforts life, And art with calmest pleasures rife; Heaven grant thee sunshine and warm rain, And to thy planter health and gain. Through thee, friend of my solitude, With hope and patience I'm endued, Deep sinks thy power within my heart, And cares and sorrows all depart. Then let non-smokers rail forever; Shall their hard words true friends dissever? Pleasure's too rare to cast away My pipe, for what the railers say! When love grows cool, thy fire still warms me, When friends are fled, thy presence charms me; If thou art full, though purse be bare, I smoke, and cast away all care! German Folk Song. THE LATEST CONVERT. I've been in love some scores of times, With Amy, Nellie, Katie, Mary— To name them all would stretch my rhymes From here as far as Demerary. But each has wed some other man,— Girls always do, I find, in real life,— And I am left alone to scan The horizon of my own ideal life. I still survive. I was, I think, Not born to run in double harness; I did not shirk my food and drink When Nellie married Harry Carnice. But I am wedded to my pipe! That faithful friend, nought can provoke it; Should it grow cold, I gently wipe Its mouth, then fill it, light, and smoke it. But it is sweet to kiss; and I Should love to kiss a wife and pet her— She scolds? Straight to my pipe I fly; Her scowls through fragrant smoke look better. There's merry Maud—with her I'd dare To brave the matrimonial ocean; She would not pout or fret, but wear A constant smile of sweet devotion. How know I that she will not change, My wishes at defiance set? Oh! (Pray this in smallest type arrange) She smokes—at times—a cigareto. F.W. LITTLETON HAY. CONFESSION OF A CIGAR SMOKER. I owe to smoking, more or less, Through life the whole of my success; With my cigar I'm sage and wise,— Without, I'm dull as cloudy skies. When smoking, all my ideas soar, When not, they sink upon the floor. The greatest men have all been smokers, And so were all the greatest jokers. Then ye who'd bid adieu to care, Come here and smoke it into air. ANON. Sir Walter Raleigh! name of worth, How sweet for thee to know King James, who never smoked on earth, Is smoking down below. THE SMOKER'S CALENDAR. When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit cheers; And still it glads the length'ning day 'Neath February's milder sway. When March's keener winds succeed, What charms me like the burning weed When April mounts the solar car, I join him, puffing a cigar; And May, so beautiful and bright, Still finds the pleasing weed a-light. To balmy zephyrs it gives zest When June in gayest livery's drest. Through July, Flora's offspring smile, But still Nicotia's can beguile; And August, when its fruits are ripe, Matures my pleasure in a pipe. September finds me in the garden, Communing with a long churchwarden. Even in the wane of dull October I smoke my pipe and sip my "robar." November's soaking show'rs require The smoking pipe and blazing fire. The darkest day in drear December's— That's lighted by their glowing embers. ANON. AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE. As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till in shadowy design I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low, to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco, and to vanish with the smoke. 'Tis a fragrant retrospection, for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine— When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart of mine. Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children and the mother as she sings, I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream. In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm; For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine. A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes, As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her, and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew round the stump," she loved me,—that old sweetheart of mine! And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned: When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to; When we should live together in a cozy little cot, Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine; And I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in heaven till the other's kiss had come. But ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and my wife is standing there! Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. A PIPE OF TOBACCO. Let the learned talk of books, The glutton of cooks, The lover of Celia's soft smack—O! No mortal can boast So noble a toast As a pipe of accepted tobacco. Let the soldier for fame, And a general's name, In battle get many a thwack—O! Let who will have most, Who will rule the rooste, Give me but a pipe of tobacco. Tobacco gives wit To the dullest old cit, And makes him of politics crack—O! The lawyers i' the hall Were not able to bawl, Were it not for a whiff of tobacco. The man whose chief glory Is telling a story, Had never arrived at the smack—O! Between ever heying, And as I was saying, Did he not take a whiff of tobacco. The doctor who places Much skill in grimaces, And feels your pulse running tic-tack—O! Would you know his chief skill? It is only to fill And smoke a good pipe of tobacco. The courtiers alone To this weed are not prone; Would you know what 'tis makes them so slack—O? 'Twas because it inclined To be honest the mind, And therefore they banished tobacco. HENRY FIELDING. Friend of my youth, companion of my later days. What needs my Muse to sing thy various praise? In country or in town, on land or sea, The weed is still delightful company. In joy or sorrow, grief or racking pain, We fly to thee for solace once again. Delicious plant, by all the world consumed, 'Tis pity thou, like man, to ashes too art doom'd. ANON. Tobacco, some say, is a potent narcotic, That rules half the world in a way quite despotic; So, to punish him well for his wicked and merry tricks, We'll burn him forthwith, as they used to do heretics. TO MY CIGAR. The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes happy thoughts flow, And drives sorrow afar. The stronger the wind blows, The brighter thou burnest! The dreariest of life's woes, Less gloomy thou turnest! As I feel on my lip Thy unselfish kiss, Like thy flame-colored tip, All is rosy-hued bliss. No longer does sorrow Lay weight on my heart; And all fears of the morrow, In joy-dreams depart. Sweet cheerer of sadness! Life's own happy star! I greet thee with gladness, My friendly cigar! FRIEDRICH MARC. CIGARS AND BEER. Here With my beer I sit, While golden moments flit. Alas! They pass Unheeded by; And, as they fly, I, Being dry, Sit idly sipping here My beer. Oh, finer far Than fame or riches are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar! Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead, My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer,— Cigars and beer? Go, whining youth, Forsooth! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,— But leave me to my beer! Gold is dross, Love is loss; So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown Without a cross! GEORGE ARNOLD. EFFUSION BY A CIGAR SMOKER. Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, Your fame to raise, Upon its blaze, Alas! ye do but light your funeral pyre! Tempting Fate's stroke; Ye fall, and all your glory ends in smoke. Safe in my chair from wounds and woe, My fire and smoke from mine own mouth I blow. Ye booksellers! who deal, like me, in puffs, The public smokes, You and your hoax, And turns your empty vapor to rebuffs. Ye through the nose Pay for each puff; when mine the same way flows, It does not run me into debt; And thus, the more I fume, the less I fret. Authors! created to be puff'd to death, And fill the mouth Of some uncouth Bookselling wight, who sucks your brains and breath, Your leaves thus far (Without its fire) resemble my cigar; But vapid, uninspired, and flat: When, when, O Bards, will ye compose like that ? Since life and the anxieties that share Our hopes and trust, Are smoke and dust, Give me the smoke and dust that banish care. The roll'd leaf bring, Which from its ashes, Phoenix-like, can spring; The fragrant leaf whose magic balm Can, like Nepenthe, all our sufferings charm. Oh, what supreme beatitude is this! What soft and sweet Sensations greet My soul, and wrap it in Elysian bliss! I soar above Dull earth in these ambrosial clouds, like Jove, And from my empyrean height Look down upon the world with calm delight. HORACE SMITH. A POT, AND A PIPE OF TOBACCO. Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant enough To those who have got the right knack, O! But give me, my boys, Those exquisite joys, A pot, and a pipe of tobacco. When fume follows fume To the top of the room, In circles pursuing their track, O! How sweet to inhale The health-giving gale Of a pipe of Virginia tobacco. Let soldiers so bold For fame or for gold Their enemies cut, slash, and hack, O! We have fire and smoke, Though all but in joke, In a peaceable pipe of tobacco. Should a mistress, unkind, Be inconstant in mind, And on your affections look black, O! Let her wherrit and tiff, 'Twill blow off in a whiff, If you take but a pipe of tobacco. The miserly elf, Who, in hoarding his pelf, Keeps body and soul on the rack, O! Would he bless and be blest, He might open his chest By taking a pipe of tobacco. Politicians so wise, All ears and all eyes For news, till their addled pates crack, O! After puzzling their brains, Will not get for their pains The worth of a pipe of tobacco If your land in the claw Of a limb of the law You trust, or your health to a quack, O! 'Tis fifty to one They're both as soon gone As you'd puff out a pipe of tobacco. Life's short, 'tis agreed; So we'll try from the weed, Of man a brief emblem to tack, O! When his spirit ascends, Die he must,—and he ends In dust, like a pipe of tobacco. From "The Universal Songster, or Museum of Mirth." IF I WERE KING. If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies of time and chance are seldom clear, We would inform them all, with bland blue weather. Delight alone would need to shed a tear, For dream and deed should war no more together. Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear; Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather; And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere, If I were king. But politics should find no harbour near; The Philistine should fear to slip his tether; Tobacco should be duty free, and beer; In fact, in room of this, the age of leather, An age of gold all radiant should appear, If I were king. W.E. HENLEY. THE PIPE YOU MAKE YOURSELF. There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well, There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes—things jes made to sell; But any pipe that kin be bought fer marbles, chalk, or pelf, Ain't ekal to the flaver of th' pipe you make yourself. Jest take a common corn cob an' whittle out the middle, Then plug up one end of it as tight as any fiddle; Fit a stem into th' side an' lay her on th' shelf, An' when she's dry you take her down, that pipe you made yourself. Cram her full clar to th' brim with nachral leaf, you bet— 'T will smoke a trifle better for bein' somewhat wet— Take your worms and fishin' pole, and a jug along for health, An' you'll get a taste o' heaven from that pipe you made yourself. There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes as well, There's plain pipes an' fancy pipes—things jes made to sell; But any pipe that kin be bought for marbles, chalk, or pelf, Ain't ekal to th' flayer of the pipe you make yourself. HENRY E. BROWN. CHIBOUQUE. At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his palace lolls at ease; Latakieh fumes his sensual palate please, While round-limbed almées dance near his divan. Slaves lure away ennui with flowers and fan; And as his gem-tipped chibouque glows, he sees, In dreamy trance, those marvellous mysteries The prophet sings of in the Al-Korán! Pale, dusk-eyed girls, with sequin-studded hair, Dart through the opal clouds like agile deer, With sensuous curves his fancy to provoke,— Delicious houris, ravishing and fair, Who to his vague and drowsy mind appear Like fragrant phantoms arabesqued in smoke! FRANCIS S. SALTUS. IN ROTTEN ROW. In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no regret For all the tumult that had been. The distances were still and green, And streaked with shadows cool and wet. Two sweethearts on a bench were set, Two birds among the boughs were met; So love and song were heard and seen In Rotten Row. A horse or two there was to fret The soundless sand; but work and debt, Fair flowers and falling leaves between, While clocks are chiming clear and keen, A man may very well forget In Rotten Row. W.E. HENLEY. THE DUET. I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the tenor, McKey, Were singing together a blithe duet, And days it were better I should forget Came suddenly back to me,— Days when life seemed a gay masque ball, And to love and be loved was the sum of it all. As they sang together, the whole scene fled, The room's rich hangings, the sweet home air, Stately Maud, with her proud blond head, And I seemed to see in her place instead A wealth of blue-black hair, And a face, ah! your face—yours, Lisette; A face it were wiser I should forget. We were back—well, no matter when or where; But you remember, I know, Lisette. I saw you, dainty and debonair, With the very same look that you used to wear In the days I should forget. And your lips, as red as the vintage we quaffed, Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed. Two small slippers with big rosettes Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there, While we sat smoking our cigarettes (Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets!) And singing that self-same air: And between the verses, for interlude, I kissed your throat and your shoulders nude. You were so full of a subtle fire, You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette; You were everything men admire; And there were no fetters to make us tire, For you were—a pretty grisette. But you loved as only such natures can, With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man. They have ceased singing that old duet, Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey. "You are burning your coat with your cigarette, And qu'avez vous , dearest, your lids are wet," Maud says, as she leans o'er me. And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise, "Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes." ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. MY CIGARETTE. Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry? Why this small tear, So pure and clear, In each blue eye? "My cigarette— I 'm smoking yet?" (I'll be discreet.) I toss it, see, Away from me Into the street. You see I do All things for you. Come, let us sup. (But, oh, what joy To be that boy Who picked it up.) TOM HALL. A BACHELOR'S VIEWS. A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,—at least its embers; A dog, a glass:— 'Tis thus we pass Such hours as one remembers. Who'd wish to wed? Poor Cupid's dead These thousand years, I wager. The modern maid Is but a jade, Not worth the time to cage her. In silken gown To "take" the town Her first and last ambition. What good is she To you or me Who have but a "position"? So let us drink To her,—but think Of him who has to keep her; And sans a wife Let's spend our life In bachelordom,—it's cheaper. TOM HALL. PIPES AND BEER. Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old under-ground room I knew, And sip cheap beer, and be glad for it, With a wild Bohemian friend or two. And oh, it was joy to loiter thus, At peace in the heart of the city's stir, Entombed, while life hurried over us, In our lazy bacchanal sepulchre. There was artist George, with the blond Greek head, And the startling creeds, and the loose cravat; There was splenetic journalistic Fred, Of the sharp retort and the shabby hat; There was dreamy Frank, of the lounging gait, Who lived on nothing a year, or less, And always meant to be something great, But only meant, and smoked to excess; And last myself, whom their funny sneers Annoyed no whit as they laughed and said, I listened to all their grand ideas And wrote them out for my daily bread! The Teuton beer-bibbers came and went, Night after night, and stared, good folk, At our table, noisy with argument, And our chronic aureoles of smoke. And oh, my life! but we all loved well The talk,—free, fearless, keen, profound,— The rockets of wit that flashed and fell In that dull old tavern under-ground! But there came a change in my days at last, And fortune forgot to starve and stint, And the people chose to admire aghast The book I had eaten dirt to print. And new friends gathered about me then, New voices summoned me there and here; The world went down in my dingy den, And drew me forth from the pipes and beer. I took the stamp of my altered lot, As the sands of the certain seasons ran, And slowly, whether I would or not, I felt myself growing a gentleman. But now and then I would break the thrall, I would yield to a pang of dumb regret, And steal to join them, and find them all, With the amber wassail near them yet,— Find, and join them, and try to seem A fourth for the old queer merry three, With my fame as much of a yearning dream As my morrow's dinner was wont to be. But the wit would lag, and the mirth would lack, And the god of jollity hear no call, And the prosperous broadcloth on my back Hung over their spirits like a pall! It was not that they failed, each one, to try Their warmth of welcome to speak and show; I should just have risen and said good-bye, With a haughty look, had they served me so. It was rather that each would seem, instead, With not one vestige of spleen or pride, Across a chasm of change to spread His greeting hands to the further side. And our gladdest words rang strange and cold, Like the echoes of other long-lost words; And the nights were no more the nights of old Than spring would be spring without the birds! So they waned and waned, these visits of mine, 'Till I married the heiress, ending here. For if caste approves the cigars and wine, She must frown perforce upon pipes and beer. And now 'tis years since I saw these men, Years since I knew them living yet. And of this alone I am sure since then,— That none has gained what he toiled to get. For I keep strict watch on the world of art, And George, with his wide, rich-dowered brain! His fervent fancy, his ardent heart, Though he greatly toiled, has toiled in vain. And Fred, for all he may sparkle bright In caustic column, in clever quip, Of a truth must still be hiding his light Beneath the bushel of journalship. And dreamy Frank must be dreaming still, Lounging through life, if yet alive, Smoking his vast preposterous fill, Lounging, smoking, striving to strive. And I, the fourth in that old queer throng, Fourth and least, as my soul avows,— I alone have been counted strong, I alone have the laurelled brows! Well, and what has it all been worth? May not my soul to my soul confess That "succeeding," here upon earth, Does not alway assume success? I would cast, and gladly, from this gray head Its crown, to regain one sweet lost year With artist George, with splenetic Fred, With dreamy Frank, with the pipes and beer! EDGAR FAWCETT. A BACHELOR'S INVOCATION. When all my plans have come to grief, And every bill is due, And every faith that's worth belief Has proved itself untrue; And when, as now, I've jilted been By every girl I've met, Ah! then I flee for peace to thee, My darling cigarette. Hail, sorceress! whose cloudy spells About my senses driven, Alone can loose their prison cells And waft my soul to heaven. Above all earthly loves, I swear, I hold thee best—and yet, Would I could see a match for thee, My darling cigarette. With lips unstained to thee I bring A lover's gentle kiss, And woo thee, see, with this fair ring, And this, and this, and this. But ah, the rings no sooner cease (Inconstant, vain coquette!) Than, like the rest, thou vanishest In smoke, my cigarette. Pall Mall Gazette . *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PIPE AND POUCH: THE SMOKER'S OWN BOOK OF POETRY *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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