My master Noon and Marton 'Squire
Left Rolleston's comfortable fire,
After good eating, drinking, sleeping,
(Upon my word there's brave housekeeping.)
Spite of rough roads and eastern fogs,
To try the stoutness of their dogs;
They ride, they shout; you'd think it thunder'd;
Then damn their bloods and bet five hundred.
See how the Rev. sets up his shoulder!
Down a steep hill there's no man bolder.
Ah! far fam'd Belle! and is it thy lot
To be outstripp'd by hook-nosed Pilot?
And thine from Phillis, high-bred Pet,
A piteous belly-full to get.
See, Ashby winks, — Sir Robert smiles,
Yet, sure enough, they ran four miles.
Look at the 'Squire! since I was born,
I ne'er saw visage so forlorn;
His chin, when Pet could scarcely waddle,
Dropp'd to the pummel of his saddle,
He snapp'd his man; abus'd his pack;
(Indeed I'd never take them back):
Crept from the shame of the comparison;
And laid the fault on poor Jack Harrison;
While full of pedigree and blood,
Stables would screen 'em, if he could.
How the proud countenance of Noon
Glows, spreads and brightens like the moon!
They who ne'er saw his face before, Sir,
Might swear he was a desperate courser;
Go, happy man, on Sherwood reckon'd
No less than Robin Hood the Second;
Go, but first breathe thyself and mare;
(I never saw a puffier pair)
Go to Winstanley and to Farnham;
('Gainst unbelief I beg to warn 'em)
Go, and henceforth unanswer'd brag
Of the mixt blood of thee and Blag;
Go, but first take the yielded laurel,
To crown the May-pole at Mountsorrel.
