And she beckoned for her courser, And they brought a milk-white mare; Proud, I ween, was that Arabian Such a gentle freight to bear: And the master moved to greet her, With a proud and stately walk; And, in reverential homage, Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. Round she flew, as Flora flying Spans the circle of the year; And the youth of London, sighing, Half forgot the ginger-beer-- Quite forgot the maids beside them; As they surely well might do, When she raised two Roman candles, Shooting fireballs red and blue! Swifter than the Tartar's arrow, Lighter than the lark in flight, On the left foot now she bounded, Now she stood upon the right. Like a beautiful Bacchante, Here she soars, and there she kneels, While amid her floating tresses Flash two whirling Catherine wheels! Hark! the blare of yonder trumpet! See, the gates are opened wide! Room, there, room for Gomersalez,-- Gomersalez in his pride! Rose the shouts of exultation, Rose the cat's triumphant call, As he bounded, man and courser, Over Master, Clown, and all! Donna Inez Woolfordinez! Why those blushes on thy cheek? Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, He hath come thy love to seek! Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee He is rushing like a gale; One foot on his coal-black's shoulders, And the other on his tail! Onward, onward, panting maiden! He is faint, and fails, for now By the feet he hangs suspended From his glistening saddle-bow. Down are gone both cap and feather, Lance and gonfalon are down! Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, He has flung them to the Clown. Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth, Fresh as when he first began; All in coat of bright vermilion, 'Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman; Right and left his whizzing broadsword, Like a sturdy flail, he throws; Cutting out a path unto thee Through imaginary foes. Woolfordinez! speed thee onward! He is hard upon thy track,-- Paralysed is Widdicombez, Nor his whip can longer crack; He has flung away his broadsword, 'Tis to clasp thee to his breast. Onward!--see, he bares his bosom, Tears away his scarlet vest; Leaps from out his nether garments, And his leathern stock unties-- As the flower of London's dustmen, Now in swift pursuit he flies. Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, O'er the buckle, heel and toe! Flaps his hands in his side-pockets, Winks to all the throng below! Onward, onward rush the coursers; Woolfordinez, peerless girl, O'er the garters lightly bounding From her steed with airy whirl! Gomersalez, wild with passion, Danger--all but her--forgets; Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her, Casting clouds of somersets! Onward, onward rush the coursers; Bright is Gomersalez' eye; Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez, For his triumph sure is nigh! Now his courser's flanks he lashes, O'er his shoulder flings the rein, And his feet aloft he tosses, Holding stoutly by the mane!