The rain cut faces like long whip lashes,
The wind blew strong in its wayward will,
And powdering fast, the men and horses
Thundering swept down Frampton Hill.
There half the grooms at last pull'd bridle,
Swearing'twould ruin their bits of blood;
Three Whig rogues flew out of the saddle,
And two were plumped in the river mud.
Three men stuck to the leading rebel;
The first was a Whig lord, fat and red,