To say the horse was Huggins' own, Would only be a brag; His neighbour Fig and he went halves, Like Centaurs, in a nag. And he that day had got the gray, Unknown to brother cit; The horse he knew would never tell, Altho' it was a _tit_. A well bred horse he was I wis, As he began to show, By quickly "rearing up within The way he ought to go." And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross, An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor In mortar and in stone A royal game of fox and goose, To play on such a loss; Wherever she set down her _orts_, Thereby he put a _cross_. Now Huggins had a crony here, That lived beside the way; One that had promised sure to be His comrade for the day. His friend had gone to Enfield Chase: Then Huggins turned his horse's head, And crossed the bridge of Lea. Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker's box,-- No friends to hunters after deer, Tho' followers of a _Fox_. And many a score behind--before-- The self-same route inclin'd, And minded all to march one way, Made one great march of mind. Gentle and simple, he and she, And swell, and blood, and prig; And some had carts, and some a chaise, According to their gig. Some long-ear'd jacks, some knacker's hacks, (However odd it sounds,) Let out that day _to hunt_, instead _Of going to the hounds_! And some had horses of their own, And some were forc'd to job it; And some, while they inclin'd to _Hunt_, Betook themselves to _Cob-it_. All sorts of vehicles and vans, Bad, middling, and the smart; Here roll'd along the gay barouche, And there a dirty cart! And lo! a cart that held a squad Of costermonger line; With one poor hack, like Pegasus, That slav'd for all the Nine! * * * * * And so he paced to Woodford Wells, Where many a horseman met, And letting go the _reins_, of course, Prepared for _heavy wet_. And lo! within the crowded door, Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse, But frame the man himself. The portrait is excellent: A snow white head a merry eye, A cheek of jolly blush; A claret tint laid on by health, With master reynard's brush. A hearty frame, a courteous bow, The prince he learn'd it from: His age about three-score and ten, And there you have Old Tom. In merriest key I trow was he, So many guests to boast; So certain congregations meet, And elevate the host. They start-- But Huggins, hitching on a tree, Branched off from all the rest. Then comes the motley mob-- Idlers to wit--no Guardians some, Of Tattlers in a squeeze; Ramblers, in heavy carts and vans, Spectators up in trees. Butchers on backs of butcher's hacks, That shambled to and fro'! Bakers intent upon a buck, Neglectful of the _dough_!