And still as fast as he drew near, 'T was wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered 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 seemed 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 did he play, Until 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 balcony 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 Pull 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.