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_!

Change Alley Bears to speculate,
As usual, for a fall;
And green and scarlet runners, such
As never climb'd a wall!

'Twas strange to think what difference
A single creature made;
A single stag had caused a whole
_Stag_nation in their trade.

The deer is brought---

Now Huggins from his saddle rose,
And in the stirrups stood;
And lo! a little cart that came
Hard by a little wood.

In shape like half a hearse,--tho' not
For corpses in the least;
For this contained the _deer alive_,
And not the _dear deceased_!

Robin bounds out, and the hunt starts: Huggins--

Away he went, and many a score
Of riders did the same,
On horse and ass--like high and low
And Jack pursuing game.

Good lord! to see the riders now,
Thrown off with sudden whirl,
A score within the purling brook,
Enjoy'd their "early purl."

A score were sprawling on the grass,
And beavers fell in show'rs;
There was another _Floorer_ there,
Beside the Queen of Flowers!

Some lost their stirrups, some their whips,
Some had no caps to show;
But few, like Charles at Charing Cross,
Rode on in _Statue_ quo.

"O, dear! O, dear!" now might you hear,
"I've surely broke a bone;"
"My head is sore,"--with many more
Such speeches from the _thrown_.