To light a pipe, matches!

Many pipeologists use many things to light their little friends. I am a man of matches, and at some point will try a tinder-lighter. For many years I have used these matches in their various forms (they have changed slightly over the years, but mainly in name). They are longer, thicker and slower burning than a standard match. Mostly they measure 55mm! I find them to be the perfect light, somewhere between a match and a spill. They issue forth a soft yellow flame that is easy to place and kind to rims. Moreover, should I need to relight deep in a big bowl, they easily reach.

To An Old Pipe

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.
Let others seek the bliss that reigns
In homage paid at beauty's shrine,
We envy not such foolish gains,
In sweet content, old pipe of mine.

Ah! you have been a travelled pipe;
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!

Anon

Folded Erinmore

Though i would try some Erinmore flake folded in to my Falcon.
You get more tobacco in the pipe with this method.
It was a bit hard to light as Erinmore flake is a thicker than the flakes i normally cut.
Chuck is right about thinner flakes are easier to handle.
Erinmore is fairly soft and bendy compared to my plugs.
I am sure the tobacco has a better taste this way.

First light.

Burning well now.

It is smoking well  the pipe lasts longer with this method.   

The Black Dudeen by Robert W. Service

Humping it here in the dug-out,
     Sucking me black dudeen,
     I'd like to say in a general way,
     There's nothing like Nickyteen;
     There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,
     Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;
     So be sure that a bloke
     Has plenty to smoke,
     If you wants him to fight your wars.
When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug,
I begin to think of my baccy plug.
I whittle a fill in my horny palm,
And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.
I trim the edges, I tamp it down,
I nurse a light with an anxious frown;
I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,
And all my face is a blissful grin;
And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,
And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;
In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,
For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.
Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow,
But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.
There was Micky and me on a night patrol,
Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;
And sure I thought I was worse than dead
Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head.
Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot,
Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.
And mind you, water up to your knees.
And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.
And if we ventured our noses out
A "typewriter" clattered its pills about.
The field of glory! Well, I don't think!
I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.
Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,
He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.
Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through;
Death and me 'as a wrongday voo.
But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag? --
I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag."
And there he shivered and cussed his luck,
So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.
And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it
Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit;
Like an infant takes to his mother's breast,
Poor little Micky! he went to rest.
But the dawn was near, though the night was black,
So I left him there and I started back.
And I laughed as the silly old bullets came,
For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name.
Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near,
And one little blighter just chipped me ear.
But there! I got to the trench all right,
When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright,
And a word that doesn't look well in type:
I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE.
So I had to do it all over again,
Crawling out on that filthy plain.
Through shells and bombs and bullets and all --
Only this time -- I do not crawl.
I run like a man wot's missing a train,
Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.
I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun
Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.
Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,
(Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!)
I run like a man that's no ideer
Of hunting around for a sooveneer.
I run bang into a German chap,
And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.
And just to show him that I'm his boss,
I gives him a kick on the parados.
And I marches him back with me all serene,
With, TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN.
     Sitting here in the trenches
     Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen,
     For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head,
     But it smashes me old dudeen.
     God blast that red-headed sniper!
     I'll give him somethin' to snipe;
     Before the war's through
     Just see how I do
     That blighter that smashed me pipe.