“Sir,—­About the Hunt.  In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost.  We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint.  In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline.”

  “I am, Sir,”
  “With respects from your humble Servant,”

  “BARTHOLOMEW RUTT.”

      “On Monday they began to hunt.”—­Chevy Chase.

John Huggins was as bold a man
  As trade did ever know,
A warehouse good he had, that stood
  Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round,
  And single Glo’ster flat,—­
And English butter in a lump,
  And Irish—­in a pat.

Six days a week beheld him stand,
  His business next his heart,
At counter, with his apron tied
  About his counter-part.

The seventh, in a sluice-house box
  He took his pipe and pot;
On Sundays, for eel-piety,
  A very noted spot.

Ah, blest if he had never gone
  Beyond its rural shed! 
One Easter-tide, some evil guide
  Put Epping in his head;

Epping, for butter justly famed,
  And pork in sausage pop’t;
Where, winter time or summer time,
  Pig’s flesh is always chop’t.

But famous more, as annals tell,
  Because of Easter Chase: 
There ev’ry year, ’twixt dog and deer,
  There is a gallant race.

With Monday’s sun John Huggins rose,
  And slapt his leather thigh,
And sang the burthen of the song,
  “This day a stag must die.”

For all the livelong day before,
  And all the night in bed,
Like Beckford, he had nourished “Thoughts
  On Hunting” in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
  And echo’s answering sounds,
All poets’ wit hath ever writ
  In dog-rel verse of hounds.

Alas! there was no warning voice
  To whisper in his ear,
Thou art a fool in leaping Cheap
  To go and hunt the deer!

No thought he had of twisted spine,
  Or broken arms or legs;
Not chicken-hearted he, altho’
  T’was whispered of his egg!

Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
  Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. Ridout’s fee,
  And Surgeon Hunter’s bill.

So he drew on his Sunday boots,
  Of lustre superfine;
The liquid black they wore that day
  Was Warren-ted to shine.

His yellow buckskins fitted close,
  As once upon a stag;
Thus well equipt he gaily skipt,
  At once, upon his nag.

But first to him that held the rein
  A crown he nimbly flung: 
For holding of the horse?—­why, no—­
  For holding of his tongue.

To say the horse was Huggins’ own,
  Would only be a brag;
His neighbor Fig and he went halves,
  Like Centaurs, in a nag.