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Table of contents
- Account Options
- STAY INSPIRED
- Maecenas - Peter Mountford - ebok () | Adlibris Bokhandel
- Book of Treasures
Somewhere, if ever ghosts be gruff, I trust some Keats will "give you snuff. Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a stem of reed, What care I for the weather? Though winter freeze and summer broil We rest us from our days of toil My Pipe and I together! Like to a priest of sacred fane, I nightly light the glow again With reverence and pleasure; For through this plain and modest bowl I coax sweet mem'ry to my soul And many trippings measure! There's comfort in each puff of smoke, Defiance to ill-fortune's stroke And happiness forever!
There grows a volume full of thought And humor, than the book you bought Holds nothing half so clever! And oh! For Mother Future to bring forth I do imagine after. What care I if my poor means Clad not my walls with splendid scenes And pictures by the masters; Here in the curling smoke-wreath glow Bold hills and lovely vales below, And brooks with nodding asters.
All that on earth is fair and fine, This fragrant magic makes it mine, And gives me sole dominion; And if you call me fanciful, I only take a stronger pull, And laugh at your opinion. Let others fret and fume with care, 'Tis easy finding everywhere, But happiness is rarer; [pg 71] And if I find it sweet and ripe, In this tobacco and my pipe, I'll count it all the fairer.
Then give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a stem of reed, What care I for the weather?
My Pipe and I together. There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, I find, If you're kind of out of humor Or in trouble in your mind. When you're feeling awful lonesome And don't know just what to do, There's a heap of satisfaction If you smoke a pipe or two. The ten thousand pleasant memories That are buried in your soul Are playing hide and seek with you Around that smoking bowl. These are mighty restful moments: You're at peace with all the world, And the panorama changes As the thin blue smoke is curled. You are at the dear old homestead Where you spent those happy years; You are romping with the children; You are smiling through your tears; You have fought and whipped the bully You are eight and he is ten.
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You approach the open doorway, And before the old armchair You will stop and kiss the grandma, You will smooth the thin white hair; You will read the open Bible, For the lamp is lit, you see. It is now your hour for bed-time And you kneel at mother's knee. Still you linger at the hearthstone; You are loath to leave the place. When an apple cut's in progress: You must wait and dance with Grace. Vanish promptly with the smoke.
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a sentence at a time enough; The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, Then pause and puff, and speak, and pause again. Such often, like the tube they so admire, Important triflers! Pernicious weed! Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manly face, As he pressed her to his bosom in a fervent, fond embrace.
No cost of others' happiness found place within his thought; The weakness of life's brittle thread no dim forebodings brought. London Tobacco. Let me but my meerschaum light, I behold a bearded man, Built upon capacious plan, Sabre-slashed in war or duel, Gruff of aspect, but not cruel, Metaphysically muddled, [pg 75] With strong beer a little fuddled, Slow in love, and deep in books, More sentimental than he looks, Swears new friendships every night. Plotting gain of merchandise, Or perchance of robber prize; Clumsy camel load upheaving, Woman deftly carpet-weaving, Meal of dates and bread and salt, While in azure heavenly vault Throbbing stars begin to dwindle.
Whether well or ill at ease, Fate alone is blessed or blamed. With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist from the waterfall given, Or the locks that float round beauty's throat In the whispering air of even. Then drown the fears of the coming years, And the dread of change before us; The way is sweet to our willing feet, With the smoke-wreaths twining o'er us.
STAY INSPIRED
As the light beams through the ringlets blue, Will hope beam through our sorrow, While the gathering wreath of the smoke we breathe Shuts out the fear of to-morrow. A magic charm in the evening calm Calls thought from mem'ry's treasure; But clear and bright in the liquid light Are the smoke-called dreams of pleasure.
Oh, let them smile while we beguile The hour with joys they've wasted.
College Song. Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, Or rather, sat, Drank beer in plenty, ate abundant food; For they to ancient customs still were true, And smoked, and smoked, because they surely knew What they were at. He made the while A rough decree. He ordered that the pipes should cease to smoke, From that day on. The people took the order as a joke; They did not think, who smoked from childhood up, That one man such delight would seek to stop, Even in fun.
But when at last it dawned upon their minds That this was meant, They closed their houses, shut their window blinds, Brought forth tobacco from their ample hoard, And to the governor's house with one accord The burghers went.
They carried chairs, and sat without a word Before his porch, And smoked, and smoked, and not a sound was heard, Till Kieft came forth to take the morning air, With speech that would have burned them then and there If words could scorch. But they, however savagely he spoke, Made no reply. Higher and thicker rose the clouds of smoke, And Kieft, perceiving that they would be free Tried not to put in force his harsh decree, But let it die.
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New York Sun. Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes touched with fond regret, Doubt and desire her mind beset, Fondling her brother's cigarette. Drooped o'er the window's parapet; With grace she turned a match to get, And lit her brother's cigarette. Her puffs of smoky violet Twined in fantastic silhouette; She blushed, laughed, coughed a little, yet, She smoked her brother's cigarette.
Her eyes with briny tears were wet, Her bang grew limp beneath its net, Her brow was gemmed with beaded sweat, And to her bed she went, you bet. For the dewdrops was a sparklin' on the beeches' tender leaves As we started out a workin' in the morn; An' th' noonday sun was sendin' down a shower of burnin' sheaves When we heard the welcome-soundin' dinner-horn. For I see th' change that's taken place since then. All th' hills is brown and faded, for th' woods is cleared away; You an' me has changed from ragged boys to men; You are livin' in th' city that we ust to dream about; I am still a dwellin' here upon the place, But my form is bent an' feeble, which was once so straight and stout, An' there's most a thousand wrinkles on my face.
You have made a mint of money; I, perhaps have been your match, But we both enjoyed life better in that ol' tobacker patch. I beg you come to-night and dine. There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the quivering light of a star, In the flash of a silvery rill, Yet to me thou art lovelier far, My Meerschaum!
Maecenas - Peter Mountford - ebok () | Adlibris Bokhandel
But the bowl I call for is thine, With its deepening amber and brown, My Meerschaum! For when trouble would bid me despair, I call for a flagon of beer, And puff a defiance to care, Till sorrows in smoke disappear, My Meerschaum! Though mid pleasures unnumbered I whirl, Though I traverse the billowy sea, Yet the waving and beautiful curl Of thy smoke's ever dearer to me, My Meerschaum! Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twixt night and morn Thy muse hath roamed through poesy's bowers Upon thy fragrant pinions borne. But now, of course, you're getting stale, Just like myself, and rather ripe; You've had your fill of cakes and ale, And half-forgotten memories, too.
And all the pensive thoughts that twine Around a past that, entre nous, Has pleasant been, old pipe of mine. Old pipe of mine, for many a year What boon companions we have been! With here a smile and there a tear, How many changes we have seen! How many hearts have ceased to beat, How many eyes have ceased to shine, How many friends will never meet, Since first we met, old pipe of mine! Though here and there the road was deep, And now and then the rain would fall; We managed every time to keep A sturdy forehead to them all! And even when she left my side, We didn't wait to fret or pine, Oh, no; we said the world was wide, And luck would turn, old pipe of mine!
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face the world alone; And, in a garret near the sky, Had scarce a crust to call our own, But many a banquet, Barmecide; And many a dream of hope divine, Lie buried in the moaning tide, That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!
Book of Treasures
But prosing isn't quite the thing, And so, I guess, I'll give it up: Just wait a moment while I sing; We'll have another parting cup, And then to bed. The stars are low; Yon sickly moon has ceased to shine; So here she goes, and off we go To Slumberland, old pipe of mine! JOHN J. Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes, Your richest incense raise; Let's take a smoke, a parting smoke, For good old by-gone days!
For good old by-gone days, We'll smoke for good old by-gone days! We'll take a smoke, a parting smoke, For good old by-gone days! We'll smoke to these we leave behind In devious college ways; We'll smoke to songs we've sung before, In good old by-gone days. We'll smoke to Alma Mater's name; She loves the cloud we raise! For well she knows the "biggest guns" Are in the coming days!
We'll smoke the times, the good old times, When we were called fire! Their light shall blaze in memory, Till the lamp of life expire!