Ride out he would, and hunt he would, So he drew on his Sunday boots, The liquid black they wore that day His yellow buckskins fitted close, Thus well equipped, he gayly skipped, But first to him that held the rein To say the horse was Huggins' own His neighbor Fig and he went halves, And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, A well-bred horse he was, I wis, As he began to show, By quickly "rearing up within And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross, A royal game of fox and goose, Now Huggins had a crony here, His comrade for the day. Whereas the man had changed his mind Meanwhile upon the case! And meaning not to hunt at all, Had gone to Enfield Chase! For why, his spouse had made him vow To let a game alone, Where folks that ride a bit of blood May break a bit of bone. Now, be his wife a plague for life! A coward sure is he!" Then Huggins turned his horse's head, And crossed the bridge of Lea. Thence slowly on through Laytonstone, And many a score behind-before- Gentle and simple, he and she, And swell, and blood, and prig; Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks (However odd it sounds), Let out that day to hunt, instead And some had horses of their own, All sorts of vehicles and vans, And lo! a cart that held a squad With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slaved for all the Nine ! Yet marvel not at any load That any horse might drag; When all, that morn, at once were drawn Together by a stag. Now when they saw John Huggins go "Hallo!” cried they; "come, trot away, You'll never see the chase !" But John, as grave as any judge, And so he paced to Woodford Wells, And lo! within the crowded door, A snow-white head, a merry eye, A claret tint laid on by health, A hearty frame, a courteous bow, In merriest key I trow was he, "Now welcome, lads," quoth he, "and prads, You're all in glorious luck : Old Robin has a run to-day, A noted forest buck. Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom, So off they scampered, man and horse, Howbeit he tumbled down in time Idlers to wit- no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze; Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks, That shambled to and fro ! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the dough! |