Her Letter, His Answer & Her Last Letter

 
And insists on his legs being free;
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free.)
 
 
He hopes you are wearing no willows,
But are happy and gay all the while;
That he knows – (which this dodging of pillows
Imparts but small ease to the style,
And the same you will pardon) – he knows, Miss,
That, though parted by many a mile,
"Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss,
They'd melt into tears at your smile."
 
 
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, is true.
 
 
For I have a small favor to ask you,
As concerns a bull-pup, and 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, —
For 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
That it's just empty pockets as lies
Between you and Joseph, it follers
That, having no family claims,
Here's my pile, which it's six hundred dollars
As is yours, with respects,
 

Truthful James.