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 popp’d;
Where, winter time or summer time,
Pig’s flesh is always chopp’d.
But famous more as annals tell,
Because of Easter chase;
There every year, ’twixt dog and deer,
There is a gallant race.
With Monday’s sun John Huggins rose,
And slapped his leather thigh,
And sang the burden of the song,
“This day a stag must die.”
For all the live-long day before,
And all the night in bed,
Like Beckford, he had nourished “Thoughts
On Hunting” in his head.
Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo’s answering sounds,
All poets’ wit hath ever writ
In dog-rel verse of hounds.
Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap
To go and hunt the dear.
No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;
Not chicken-hearted he, although
’Twas whispered of his eggs!
Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. Ridout’s fee,
And Surgeon Hunter’s bill.
So he drew on his Sunday boots,
Of lustre superfine;
The liquid black they wore that day
Was Warren-ted to shine.