And now as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter’d at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke As they had basted been.
But still he seem’d to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced, For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, And till he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay.
And there he threw the Wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild-goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcòny spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.
Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here’s the house— They all at once did cry, The dinner waits, and we are tired; Said Gilpin—So am I!
But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there, For why? his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew Shot by an archer strong, So did he fly—which brings me to The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the Callender’s His horse at last stood still.