urned 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 inclined,
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-eared 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 forced to job it:
And some, while they inclined to _Hunt_,
Betook themselves to _Cob-it_.

All sorts of vehicles and vans,
Bad, middling, and the smart;
Here rolled 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 slaved for all the Nine!

Yet marvel not at any load,
That any horse might drag,
When all, that morn, at once were drawn
Together by a stag!

Now when they saw John Huggins go
At such a sober pace;
"Hallo!" cried they; "come, trot away,
You'll never see the chase!"

But John, as grave as any judge,
Made answer quite as blunt;
"It will be time enough to trot,
When I begin to hunt!"

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.

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 learned it from;
His age about threescore 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.

"Now welcome lads," quoth he, "and prads,
You're all in glorious luck:
Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.

"Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom
In red already ride;
'Tis but a _step_, and on a horse
You soon may go _a-stride_."

So off they scampered, man and horse,
As time and temper pressed--
But Huggins, hitching on a tree,
_Branched_ off from all the rest.

Howbeit he tumbled down in t