But sad at soul John Huggins turned:
No comfort could he find;
While thus the “Hunting Chorus” sped,
To stay five bars behind.
For though by dint of spur he got
A leap in spite of fate—
Howbeit there was no toll at all—
They could not clear the gate.
And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt,
And sorely cursed the day,
And mused a New Gray’s elegy
On his departed gray.
Now many a sign at Woodford town
Its Inn-vitation tells:
But Huggins, full of ills, of course
Betook him to the Wells,
Where Rounding tried to cheer him up
With many a merry laugh:
But Huggins thought of neighbour Fig,
And called for half-and-half.
Yet, spite of drink, he could not blink
Remembrance of his loss;
To drown a care like his, required
Enough to drown a horse.
When thus forlorn, a merry horn
Struck up without the door—
The mounted mob were all returned;
The Epping Hunt was o’er!
And many a horse was taken out
Of saddle, and of shaft;
And men, by dint of drink, became
The only “beasts of draught.”
For now begun a harder run
On wine, and gin, and beer;
And overtaken men discussed
The overtaken deer.
How far he ran, and eke how fast,
And how at bay he stood,
Deerlike, resolved to sell his life
As dearly as he could:—