LXXXIX.

Away she flies, with the groom behind,—­
It looks like a race of the Calmuck kind,
  When Hymen himself is the starter,
And the Maid rides first in the fourfooted strife,
Riding, striding, as if for her life,
While the Lover rides after to catch him a wife,
  Although it’s catching a Tartar.

XC.

But the Groom has lost his glittering hat! 
Though he does not sigh and pull up for that—­
Alas! his horse is a tit for Tat
  To sell to a very low bidder—­
His wind is ruin’d, his shoulder is sprung,
Things, though a horse be handsome and young,
  A purchaser will consider.

XCI.

But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust,
Oh, for a fall, if she must,
  On the gentle lap of Flora! 
But still, thank Heaven! she clings to her seat—­
Away! away! she could ride a dead heat
With the Dead who ride so fast and fleet,
  In the Ballad of Leonora!

XCII.

Away she gallops!—­it’s awful work! 
It’s faster than Turpin’s ride to York,
  On Bess that notable clipper! 
She has circled the Ring!—­she crosses the Park! 
Mazeppa, although he was stripp’d so stark,
  Mazeppa couldn’t outstrip her!

XCIII.

The fields seem running away with the folks! 
The Elms are having a race for the Oaks
  At a pace that all Jockeys disparages! 
All, all is racing! the Serpentine
Seems rushing past like the “arrowy Rhine,”
The houses have got on a railway line,
  And are off like the first-class carriages!

XCIV.

She’ll lose her life! she is losing her breath! 
A cruel chase, she is chasing Death,
  As female shriekings forewarn her: 
And now—­as gratis as blood of Guelph—­
She clears that gate, which has clear’d itself
  Since then, at Hyde Park Corner!

XCV.

Alas! for the hope of the Kilmanseggs! 
For her head, her brains, her body, and legs,
  Her life’s not worth a copper! 
      Willy-nilly,
      In Piccadilly,
A hundred hearts turn sick and chilly,
  A hundred voices cry, “Stop her!”
And one old gentleman stares and stands,
Shakes his head and lifts his hands,
  And says, “How very improper!”

XCVI.

On and on!—­what a perilous run! 
The iron rails seem all mingling in one,
  To shut out the Green Park scenery! 
And now the Cellar its dangers reveals,
She shudders—­she shrieks—­she’s doom’d, she feels,
To be torn by powers of horses and wheels,
  Like a spinner by steam machinery!