A snow white head a merry eye,

A cheek of jolly blush;

A claret tint laid on by health,

With master reynard's brush.

A hearty frame, a courteous bow,

The prince he learn'd it from:

His age about three-score and ten,

And there you have Old Tom.

In merriest key I trow was he,

So many guests to boast;

So certain congregations meet,

And elevate the host.

But Huggins, hitching on a tree,

Branched off from all the rest.

Idlers to wit—no Guardians some,

Of Tattlers in a squeeze;

Ramblers, in heavy carts and vans,

Spectators up in trees.

Butchers on backs of butcher's hacks,

That shambled to and fro'!

Bakers intent upon a buck,

Neglectful of the dough!

Change Alley Bears to speculate,

As usual, for a fall;

And green and scarlet runners, such

As never climb'd a wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference

A single creature made;

A single stag had caused a whole

Stagnation in their trade.

Now Huggins from his saddle rose,

And in the stirrups stood;

And lo! a little cart that came

Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,—tho' not

For corpses in the least;

For this contained the deer alive,

And not the dear deceased!

Away he went, and many a score

Of riders did the same,

On horse and ass—like high and low

And Jack pursuing game.

Good lord! to see the riders now,

Thrown off with sudden whirl,

A score within the purling brook,

Enjoy'd their "early purl."

A score were sprawling on the grass,

And beavers fell in show'rs;

There was another Floorer there,

Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,

Some had no caps to show;

But few, like Charles at Charing Cross,

Rode on in Statue quo.

"O, dear! O, dear!" now might you hear,

"I've surely broke a bone;"

"My head is sore,"—with many more

Such speeches from the thrown.

Away they went then dog and deer,

And hunters all away.—

The maddest horses never knew

Mad staggers such as they!

Some gave a shout, some roll'd about,

And antick'd as they rode,

And butchers whistled on their curs,

And milkmen tally-ho'd!

About two score there were, not more,

That gallopped in the race;

The rest, alas! lay on the grass,

As once in Chevy Chase!

And by their side see Huggins ride,

As fast as he could speed;

For, like Mazeppa, he was quite

At mercy of his steed.

No means he had, by timely check,

The gallop to remit,

For firm and last, between his teeth,

The biter held the bitt.

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!"

And now he bounded up and down,

Now like a jelly shook:

Till bump'd and gall'd—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 as might be.

Such cushion to resign:

"Possession is nine points," but his

Seemed more than ninety nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points

That enter'd in his skin,

His nag was running off the while

The thorns were running in!