Robin bounds out, and the hunt starts:  Huggins—­

  Away he went, and many a score
    Of riders did the same,
  On horse and ass—­like high and low
    And Jack pursuing game.

  Good lord! to see the riders now,
    Thrown off with sudden whirl,
  A score within the purling brook,
    Enjoy’d their “early purl.”

  A score were sprawling on the grass,
    And beavers fell in show’rs;
  There was another Floorer there,
    Beside the Queen of Flowers!

  Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,
    Some had no caps to show;
  But few, like Charles at Charing Cross,
    Rode on in Statue quo.

  “O, dear!  O, dear!” now might you hear,
    “I’ve surely broke a bone;”
  “My head is sore,”—­with many more
    Such speeches from the thrown.

* * * * *

  Away they went then dog and deer,
    And hunters all away.—­
  The maddest horses never knew
    Mad staggers such as they!

  Some gave a shout, some roll’d about,
    And antick’d as they rode,
  And butchers whistled on their curs,
    And milkmen tally-ho’d!

  About two score there were, not more,
    That gallopped in the race;
  The rest, alas! lay on the grass,
    As once in Chevy Chase!

  And by their side see Huggins ride,
    As fast as he could speed;
  For, like Mazeppa, he was quite
    At mercy of his steed.

  No means he had, by timely check,
    The gallop to remit,
  For firm and last, between his teeth,
    The biter held the bitt.

  Trees raced along, all Essex fled
    Beneath him as he sate,—­
  He never saw a county go
    At such a county-rate!

  “Hold hard! hold hard! you’ll lame the dogs:” 
    Quoth Huggins, “so I do,—­
  I’ve got the saddle well in hand,
    And hold as hard as you!”

  And now he bounded up and down,
    Now like a jelly shook: 
  Till bump’d and gall’d—­yet not where Gall,
    For bumps did ever look!

  And rowing with his legs the while,
    As tars are apt to ride;
  With every kick he gave a prick,
    Deep in the horse’s side!

  But soon the horse was well avenged,
    For cruel smart of spurs,
  For, riding through a moor, he pitched
    His master in a furze!

  Where sharper set than hunger is
    He squatted all forlorn;
  And like a bird was singing out
    While sitting on a thorn!

  Right glad was he, as well as might be. 
    Such cushion to resign: 
  “Possession is nine points,” but his
    Seemed more than ninety nine.

  Yet worse than all the prickly points
    That enter’d in his skin,
  His nag was running off the while
    The thorns were running in!