A score were sprawling on the grass, And beavers fell in showers; 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_.

Howbeit their wailings never moved The wide Satanic clan, Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned, To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good, that understood, Their laughter knew no bounds, To see the horses "throwing off,"

So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law, Like men the Courts among; Before those Barristers the dogs Proceed to "giving tongue."

And now Old Robin's foes were set That fatal taint to find, That always is scent after him, Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man, A different temper shows, What hound resents that he is sent To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler--howlers all, No single tongue was mute; The stag had led a hart, and lo!

The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife And fork in either haunch; And every dog he knew had got An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like A ship before the gale; Now flew to "_h_ills we know not of,"

Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now, Went off at furious pitch;-- A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob, Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts, A hunter did endorse, And like a poet seemed to ride Upon a winged horse,--

A whipper-in?--no whipper-in: A huntsman? no such soul.

A connoisseur, or amateur?

Why yes,--a Horse Patrol.

A member of police, for whom The county found a nag, And, like Acteon in the tale, He found himself in stag!

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 rolled about, And anticked as they rode, And butchers whistled on their curs, And milkmen _tally-hoed_.

About two score there were, not 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.

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 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!"

Good Lord! to see him ride along, And throw his arms about, As if with stitches in the side, That he was drawing out!

And now he bounded up and down, 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 Seemed 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, Altho' 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!

Tho' felony, yet who would let Another's horse alone, Whose neck is placed in jeopardy By riding on his own?

And yet the conduct of the man Seemed honest-like and fair; For he seemed willing, horse and all, To go before the _mare_!

So up on Huggins' horse he got, And swiftly rode away, While Hugging mounted on the mare, Done brown upon a bay!

And off they set, in double chase, For such was fortune's whim, The farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him!

Alas! with one that rode so well In vain it was to strive; A dab was he, as dabs should be-- All leaping and alive!

And here of Nature's kindly care Behold a curious proof, As nags are meant to leap, she puts A frog in every hoof!

Whereas the mare, altho' her share She had of hoof and frog, On coming to a gate stopped short As stiff as any log;

Whilst Huggins in the stirrup stood With neck like neck of crane, As sings the Scottish song--"to see The _gate_ his _hart_ had gane."

And lo! the dim and distant hunt Diminished in a trice: The steeds, like Cinderella's team, Seemed dwindling into mice;

And, far remote, each scarlet coat Soon flitted like a spark,-- Tho' still the forest murmured back An echo of the bark!