For why, his spouse had made him vow
To let a game alone,
Where folks that ride a bit of blood,
May break a bit of bone.
“Now, be his wife a plague for life!
A coward sure is he!”
Then Huggins turned his horse’s head,
And crossed the bridge of Lea.
Thence slowly on through Laytonstone,
Past many a Quaker’s box—
No Friends to hunters after deer,
Though followers of a Fox.
And many a score behind—before—
The self-same rout inclined;
And, minded all to march one way,
Made one great march of mind.
Gentle and simple, he and she,
And swell, and blood, and prig;
And some had carts, and some a chaise,
According to their gig.
Some long-eared jacks, some knacker’s hacks
(However odd it sounds),
Let out that day to hunt, instead
Of going to the hounds!
And some had horses of their own,
And some were forced to job it;
And some, while they inclined to Hunt,
Betook themselves to Cob-it.
All sorts of vehicles and vans,
Bad, middling, and the smart;
Here rolled along the gay barouche,
And there a dirty cart!
And lo! a cart that held a squad
Of costermonger line;
With one poor hack, like Pegasus,
That slaved for all the Nine!
Yet marvel not at any load
That any horse might drag;
When all, that morn, at once were drawn
Together by a stag.