To urge the wheelers all alive,
While every loose stone strikes the box,
Or rattles aloft and the boot top knocks,
And tells how goeth the road below,
Or why the panting leaders blow,
I never was in a dull post chaise,
But on the Mail was fain to gaze,
And jumped again on the buoyant box,
Like an ape that sits on its native rocks,
And my native place I always hail,