Then swiftly go, thou ocean steed; Roll on, ye rapid iron wheels, Bearing away, with careless speed, The message that my soul reveals. The address followed, in plain prose. * * * * * Rail road, steamboats, horses, stages, All of you are paid your wages, All of you, for nothing better Than to take this little letter. Should the document miscarry, Uncle Sam will see "old Harry!" To prevent this dread collision, I present unto your vision State, county, and between, the town, Indiana, Nashville, Brown. For Mrs. Jane Eliza Brent, This is enough,--now "let her went." * * * * * Here is a specimen in a less elevated strain:-- Robber, shouldst thou seize this letter, Break it not; there's nothing in't, Nought for which thou wouldst be better: Note of bank, or coin from mint. There is nothing but affection, And perhaps a little news; When you've read this, on reflection, Take or leave it as you choose. If you should conclude to leave it, I would like to have it go To Seth Jones, who will receive it In the town we call Glasgow, And the state of old Kentucky, (There's no rhyme for that but "lucky.") The following seems to have been the superscription to a dun, written "more in sorrow than in anger." A hard old hoss is Charley Cross, And I don't care who knows it; He's borrowed an X, and never expects I'll dun him, so he goes it. He'll find he's mistaken, and won't save his bacon, Unless he sends me the tin: In the city of Penn, somewhere is his den; I can't tell what _state_ he is in. Perhaps he's "slewed," or may be, pursued By some other man he owes, Whichever it is, when this meets his phiz, My account he had better close. The street and number were subjoined; but it is to be feared that the "old hoss" proved hard-bitted, and would have nothing to do with "_checks_," except those in his favor. * * * * * Post master dear, I greatly fear That this letter never will go To him I write, Unless to your sight The name I plainly show. 'Tis Thomas Brown, The name of his town Is Hartford; the county the same, Land of steady habits, Famed for onions and rabbits, The place whence once I came. * * * * * This is apparently an outpouring of the sorrows of a victim to the Maine law, and was mailed in that state:-- Oh John O'Brien, half of you is better than the whole, For that would be a Demi-John, my sorrow to console. Oh dear O'Brien, briny tears into my whiskers roll, To think that you live in New York, while here is not a soul To stand treat; or in other words, to "pass the flowing bowl."