Some gave a shout, some rolled about, And anticked as they rode;

And butchers whistled on their curs,

And milkmen tally-ho'd!

About two score there were, or more,

That galloped in the race; The rest, alas! lay on the grass, As once in Chevy Chase!

But even those that galloped on
Were fewer every minute;
The field kept getting more select,
Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt Some fell in miry bogs,

And vainly rose and "ran a muck,"

To overtake the dogs.

And some, in charging hurdle stakes, Were left bereft of sense;

What else could be premised of blades That never learned to fence?

But Roundings, Tom and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch could stay; O'er all they went, and did the work Of leap-years in a day!

No means he had, by timely check,
The gallop to remit,

For firm and fast, between his teeth,

The biter held the bit.

Trees raced along, all Essex fled

Beneath him as he sate;

He never saw a county go

At such a county rate!

"Hold hard! hold hard! you'll lame the dogs!"

Quoth Huggins, "so I do ;

I've got the saddle well in hand,
And hold as hard as you!"

Now like a jelly shook;

Till bumped and galled-yet not where Gall

For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while,

As tars are apt to ride;

With every kick he gave a prick

Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged

For cruel smart of spurs,

For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze !

Where, sharper set than hunger is,

He squatted all forlorn;

And, like a bird, was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign:
"Possession is nine points," but his
Seems more than ninety-nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points
That entered in his skin,

His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!

Now had a Papist seen his sport, Thus laid upon the shelf, Although no horse he had to cross, He might have crossed himself.

Yet surely still the wind is ill
That none can say is fair;
A jolly wight there was, that rode
Upon a sorry mare!

A sorry mare, that surely came
Of pagan blood and bone;
For down upon her knees she went
To many a stock and stone!

Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift,
This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here,
To hunt another stage!