A score were sprawling on the grass,
  And beavers fell in showers;
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.

Howbeit their wailings never moved
  The wide Satanic clan,
Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned,
  To see the fall of Man.

And hunters good, that understood,
  Their laughter knew no bounds,
To see the horses “throwing off,”
  So long before the hounds.

For deer must have due course of law,
  Like men the Courts among;
Before those Barristers the dogs
  Proceed to “giving tongue.”

And now Old Robin’s foes were set
  That fatal taint to find,
That always is scent after him,
  Yet always left behind.

And here observe how dog and man,
  A different temper shows,
What hound resents that he is sent
  To follow his own nose?

Towler and Jowler—­howlers all,
  No single tongue was mute;
The stag had led a hart, and lo! 
  The whole pack followed suit.

No spur he lacked, fear stuck a knife
  And fork in either haunch;
And every dog he knew had got
  An eye-tooth to his paunch!

Away, away! he scudded like
  A ship before the gale;
Now flew to “hills we know not of,”
  Now, nun-like, took the vale.

Another squadron charging now,
  Went off at furious pitch;—­
A perfect Tam o’ Shanter mob,
  Without a single witch.

But who was he with flying skirts,
  A hunter did endorse,
And like a poet seemed to ride
  Upon a winged horse,—­

A whipper-in?—­no whipper-in: 
  A huntsman? no such soul. 
A connoisseur, or amateur? 
  Why yes,—­a Horse Patrol.

A member of police, for whom
  The county found a nag,
And, like Acteon in the tale,
  He found himself in stag!

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 rolled about,
  And anticked as they rode,
And butchers whistled on their curs,
  And milkmen tally-hoed.

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

But even those that galloped on
  Were fewer every minute,—­
The field kept getting more select,
  Each thicket served to thin it.

For some pulled up, and left the hunt,
  Some fell in miry bogs,
And vainly rose and “ran a muck,”
  To overtake the dogs.