And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jelly shook;
Till bumped and galled—yet not where Gall
For bumps did ever look!
And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride;
With every kick he gave a prick
Deep in the horse’s side!
But soon the horse was well avenged
For cruel smart of spurs,
For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze!
Where, sharper set than hunger is,
He squatted all forlorn;
And, like a bird, was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!
Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign;
“Possession is nine points,” but his
Seems more than ninety-nine.
Yet worse than all the prickly points
That entered in his skin,
His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!
Now had a Papist seen his sport,
Thus laid upon the shelf,
Although no horse he had to cross,
He might have crossed himself.
Yet surely still the wind is ill
That none can say is fair;
A jolly wight there was, that rode
Upon a sorry mare!
A sorry mare, that surely came
Of pagan blood and bone;
For down upon her knees she went
To many a stock and stone!
Now seeing Huggins’ nag adrift,
This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here,
To hunt another stage!