His yellow buckskins fitted close,
As erst upon a stag;
Thus well equipped he gayly skipped,
At once upon his nag.
But first to him that held the rein
A crown he nimbly flung;
For holding of the horse!—why, no,
For holding of his tongue.
To say the horse was Huggins’ own
Would only be a brag;
His neighbour Fig and he went halves,
Like Centaurs, in a nag.
And he that day had got the gray,
Unknown to brother cit;
The horse he knew would never tell,
Although it was a tit.
A well-bred horse he was, I wis,
As he began to show,
By quickly “rearing up within
The way he ought to go.”
But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne’er from saddle cast;
Resolved, by going very slow,
On sitting very fast.
And so he jogged to Tot’n’am Cross,
An ancient town well known,
Where Edward wept for Eleanor
In mortar and in stone.
A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss;
Wherever she set down her orts
Thereby he put a cross.
Now Huggins had a crony here,
That lived beside the way;
One that had promised sure to be
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!