Now when they saw John Huggins go
At such a sober pace;
“Hallo!” cried they; “come trot away,
You’ll never see the chase!”
But John, as grave as any judge,
Made answer quite as blunt;
“It will be time enough to trot,
When I begin to hunt!”
And so he paced to Woodford Wells,
Where many a horseman met,
And letting go the reins of course,
Prepared for heavy wet.
And lo! within the crowded door,
Stood Rounding, jovial elf;
Here shall the Muse frame no excuse,
But frame the man himself.
A snow-white head, a merry eye,
A cheek of jolly blush;
A claret tint laid on by health,
With master Reynard’s brush;
A hearty frame, a courteous bow,
The prince he learned it from;
His age about threescore and ten,
And there you have Old Tom.
In merriest key I trow was he,
So many guests to boast;
So certain congregations meet,
And elevate the host.
“Now welcome lads,” quoth he, “and prads,
You’re all in glorious luck:
Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.
“Fair Mead’s the place, where Bob and Tom,
In red already ride;
’Tis but a step, and on a horse,
You soon may go a-stride.”
So off they scampered, man and horse,
As time and temper pressed—
But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
Branched off from all the rest.