About two score there were, or 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!