The very horses knew his weight,
  When he was in the rear,
And wished his box a Christmas box,
  To come but once a year.

Alas! against the shafts of love,
  What armor can avail? 
Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
  His scarlet coat of mail.

The barmaid of the Crown he loved,
  From whom he never ranged,
For though he changed his horses there,
  His love he never changed.

He thought her fairest of all fares,
  So fondly love prefers;
And often, among twelve outsides,
  Deemed no outside like hers!

One day, as she was sitting down
  Beside the porter-pump—­
He came, and knelt with all his fat,
  And made an offer plump.

Said she, my taste will never learn
  To like so huge a man,
So I must beg you will come here
  As little as you can.

But still he stoutly urged his suit
  With vows, and sighs, and tears,
Yet could not pierce her heart, altho’
  He drove the Dart for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued,
  The maid was cold and proud,
And sent him off to Coventry,
  While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
  And thence all back to town,
The course of love was never smooth,
  So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine
  To merely bones and skin,
But still he loved like one resolved
  To love through thick and thin.

O Mary! view my wasted back,
  And see my dwindled calf;
Tho’ I have never had a wife,
  I’ve lost my better half.

Alas, in vain he still assail’d,
  He heart withstood the dint;
Though he had carried sixteen stone
  He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow
  To break his being’s link;
For he was so reduced in size,
  At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water’s praise,
  And waste a deal of breath,
But John, tho’ he drank nothing else,
  He drank himself to death!

The cruel maid that caused his love
  Found out the fatal close,
For looking in the butt, she saw
  The butt-end of his woes.

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
  But that is only talk—­
For after riding all his life,
  His ghost objects to walk!

HUGGINS AND DUGGINS.

PASTORAL, AFTER POPE.

Two swains or clowns—­but call them swains—­
Whilst keeping flocks on Salisbury plains,
For all that tend on sheep as drovers
Are turned to songsters or to lovers,
Each of the lass he call’d his dear,
Began to carol loud and clear. 
First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,
In the way of ancient shepherd men;
Who thus alternate hitched in song,
“All things by turns, and nothing long.”

HUGGINS.