Not _chicken-hearted_ he, altho'
'Twas whisper'd of his _eggs_.'

Ride out he would, and hunt he would,
Nor dreamt of ending ill;
Mayhap with Dr. _Ridout's_ fee,
And Surgeon _Hunter's_ bill.

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

And he that day had got the gray,
Unknown to brother cit;
The horse he knew would never tell,
Altho' it was a _tit_.

A well bred horse he was I wis,
As he began to show,
By quickly "rearing up within
The way he ought to go."

And so he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross,
An ancient town well known,
Where Edward wept for Eleanor
In mortar and in stone

A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss;