VII.

I felt my visage turn from red To white--from cold to hot; But it was nothing wonderful My color changed, I wot, For, like some variable silks, I felt that I was shot.

VIII.

And looking forth with anxious eye, From my snug upper story, I saw our melancholy corps, Going to beds all gory; The pioneers seem'd very loth To axe their way to glory.

IX.

The captain march'd as mourners march, The ensign too seem'd lagging, And many more, although they were No ensigns, took to flagging-- Like corpses in the Serpentine, Methought they wanted dragging.

X.

But while I watch'd, the thought of death Came like a chilly gust, And lo! I shut the window down, With very little lust To join so many marching men, That soon might be March dust.

XI.

Quoth I, "Since Fate ordains it so, Our foe the coast must land on";-- I felt so warm beside the fire I cared not to abandon; Our hearths and homes are always things That patriots make a stand on.

XII.

"The fools that fight abroad for home,"

Thought I, "may get a wrong one; Let those who have no homes at all Go battle for a long one."

The mirror here confirm'd me this Reflection, by a strong one.

XIII.

For there, where I was wont to shave, And deck me like Adonis, There stood the leader of our foes, With vultures for his armies-- No Corsican, but Death himself, The Bony of all Bonies.

XIV.

A horrid sight it was, and sad, To see the grisly chap Put on my crimson livery, And then begin to clap My helmet on--ah me! it felt Like any felon's cap.

XV.

My plume seem'd borrow'd from a hearse, An undertaker's crest; My epaulette's like coffin-plates; My belt so heavy press'd, Four pipeclay cross-roads seem'd to lie At once upon my breast.

XVI.

My brazen breast-plate only lack'd A little heap of salt, To make me like a corpse full dress'd, Preparing for the vault-- To set up what the Poet calls My everlasting halt.

XVII.

This funeral show inclined me quite To peace:--and here I am!

Whilst better lions go to war, Enjoying with the lamb A lengthen'd life, that might have been A Martial Epigram.

THE EPPING HUNT.[28]

[Footnote 28: Originally published in 1830 in a thin duodecimo, with illustrations by George Cruikshank. It was while Hood was living at Winchmore Hill that he had the opportunity of noting the chief features of this once famous Civic Revel--the Easter Monday Hunt--even then in its decadence.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

Striding in the Steps of Strutt--The historian of the old English ports--the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.

In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing:--

"Sir,--About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost. We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline."

"I am, Sir,"

"With respects from your humble Servant,"

"BARTHOLOMEW RUTT."

"On Monday they began to hunt."--_Chevy Chase_.

John Huggins was as bold a man As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round, And single Glo'ster flat,-- And English butter in a lump, And Irish--in a _pat_.

Six days a week beheld him stand, His business next his heart, At _counter_, with his apron tied About his _counter-part._

The seventh, in a sluice-house box He took his pipe and pot; On Sundays, for _eel-piety_, A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone Beyond its rural shed!

One Easter-tide, some evil guide Put Epping in his head;

Epping, for butter justly famed, And pork in sausage pop't; Where, winter time or summer time, Pig's flesh is always _chop't_.

But famous more, as annals tell, Because of Easter Chase: There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer, There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose, And slapt his leather thigh, And sang the burthen of the song, "This day a stag must die."

For all the livelong day before, And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head.