“It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing.”

“Sir,—­About the Hunt.  In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there was nobody allmost.  We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint.  In short our Hunt may be sad to be in the last Stag of a Decline.

“I am, Sir,

“With respects from

“Your humble Servant,

“BARTHOLOMEW RUTT.”

Then begins the tale.

  John Huggins was as bold a man
    As trade did ever know,
  A warehouse good he had, that stood
    Hard by the church of Bow.

  There people bought Dutch cheeses round,
    And single Glos’ter flat,—­
  And English butter in a lump,
    And Irish—­in a pat.

  Six days a week beheld him stand,
    His business next his heart,
  At counter with his apron tied
    About his counter-part.

  The seventh in a sluice-house box,
    He took his pipe and pot;
  On Sundays for eel-piety,
    A very noted spot.

Huggins gets “Epping in his head,” and resolves to go to “the Hunt.”

  Alas! there was no warning voice
    To whisper in his ear,
  Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap
     To go and hunt the deer!

  No thought he had of twisted spine,
    Or broken arms or legs;
  Not chicken-hearted he, altho’
    ‘Twas whisper’d of his eggs.’

  Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
    Nor dreamt of ending ill;
  Mayhap with Dr. Ridout’s fee,
    And Surgeon Hunter’s bill.

  To say the horse was Huggins’ own,
    Would only be a brag;
  His neighbour Fig and he went halves,
    Like Centaurs, in a nag.

  And he that day had got the gray,
    Unknown to brother cit;
  The horse he knew would never tell,
    Altho’ it was a tit.

  A well bred horse he was I wis,
    As he began to show,
  By quickly “rearing up within
    The way he ought to go.”

  And so he jogged to Tot’n’am Cross,
    An ancient town well known,
  Where Edward wept for Eleanor
    In mortar and in stone

  A royal game of fox and goose,
    To play on such a loss;
  Wherever she set down her orts,
    Thereby he put a cross.

  Now Huggins had a crony here,
    That lived beside the way;
  One that had promised sure to be
    His comrade for the day.

His friend had gone to Enfield Chase: 

  Then Huggins turned his horse’s head,
    And crossed the bridge of Lea.

  Thence slowly on thro’ Laytonstone,
    Past many a Quaker’s box,—­
  No friends to hunters after deer,
    Tho’ followers of a Fox.