Now, master lost ’is ’ead when ’e found ’e couldn’t stop, And ’e pulled a valve or somethin’ an’ somethin’ else went pop, An’ somethin’ else went fizzywiz, and in a flash, or less, That blessed car was goin’ like a limited express. Master ’eld the steerin’ gear, an’ kept the road all right, And away they whizzed and clattered—my aunt! it was a sight. ’E seemed the finest draught ’orse as ever lived by far, For all the country Juggins thought ’twas ’im wot pulled the car. ’E was stretchin’ like a grey’ound, ’e was goin’ all ’e knew; But it bumped an’ shoved be’ind ’im, for all that ’e could do; It butted ’im an’ boosted ’im an’ spanked ’im on a’ead, Till ’e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said. Ten mile in twenty minutes! ’E done it, sir. That’s true. The only time we ever found what that ’ere ’orse could do. Some say it wasn’t ’ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss, But ’e broke the ten-mile record, and that’s good enough for us. You see that ’orse’s tail, sir? You don’t! No more do we, Which really ain’t surprisin’, for ’e ’as no tail to see; That engine wore it off ’im before master made it stop, And all the road was littered like a bloomin’ barber’s shop. And master? Well, it cured ’im. ’E altered from that day, And come back to ’is ’orses in the good old-fashioned way. And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far Is to ’int as ’ow you think ’e ought to keep a motor-car. WITH THE CHIDDINGFOLDS The horse is bedded down Where the straw lies deep. The hound is in the kennel; Let the poor hound sleep! And the fox is in the spinney By the run which he is haunting, And I’ll lay an even guinea That a goose or two is wanting When the farmer comes to count them in the morning. The horse is up and saddled; Girth the old horse tight! The hounds are out and drawing In the morning light. Now it’s ‘Yoick!’ among the heather, And it’s ‘Yoick!’ across the clover, And it’s ‘To him, all together!’ ‘Hyke a Bertha! Hyke a Rover!’ And the woodlands smell so sweetly in the morning. ‘There’s Termagant a-whimpering; She whimpers so.’ ‘There’s a young hound yapping!’ Let the young hound go! But the old hound is cunning, And it’s him we mean to follow, ‘They are running! They are running! And it’s ‘Forrard to the hollo!’ For the scent is lying strongly in the morning. ‘Who’s the fool that heads him?’ Hold hard, and let him pass! He’s out among the oziers He’s clear upon the grass. You grip his flanks and settle, For the horse is stretched and straining, Here’s a game to test your mettle, And a sport to try your training, When the Chiddingfolds are running in the morning.