This is the postman who knocked in the morn awaking the gourmand all forlorn from his dream of the table, &c.
And this is Jack (with a face of scorn), thinking in wrath of "directions" torn from the parcel by Railway borne, announced by the postman who knocked in the morn, awaking the gourmand all forlorn, who dreamed of the table where diners sat, served by the cooking-wench florid and fat of the dame with the crumpled hat, wife of the porter who "found" the "birds" in the Babel where lost was the label addressed to the friend who expected the Grouse that Jack shot!
MORAL.
If in the Shooting Season you some brace of birds would send
(As per letter duly posted) to a fond expectant friend,
Pray remember that a railway is the genuine modern Babel,
And be very very careful how you fasten on the label!