And you'll still think of him in your pleasures,
In your brief twilight dreams of the past;
In this green laurel-spray that he treasures,
It was plucked where your parting was last;
In this specimen,--but a small trifle,--
It will do for a pin for your shawl
(Which the truth not to wickedly stifle
Was his last week's "clean up,"--and _his all_).

He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,
Were it not that I scorn to deny
That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,
In view that his fever was high;
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.
And now, my respects, Miss, to you;
Which my language, although comprehensive,
Might seem to be freedom,--it's true.

Which I have a small favor to ask you,
As concerns a bull-pup, which the same,--
If the duty would not overtask you,--
You would please to procure for me, _game_;
And send per express to the Flat, Miss,
Which they say York is famed for the breed,
Which though words of deceit may be that, Miss,
I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.

_P.S._--Which this same interfering
Into other folks' way I despise;
Yet if it so be I was hearing