Away went Gilpin—who but he?
His fame soon spread around—
He carries weight! he rides a race!
’Tis for a thousand pound!
And still, as fast as he drew near,
’Twas 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 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 bal-cony 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.