And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jelly shook:
Till bump'd and gall'd--yet not where Gall,
For bumps did ever look!

And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride;
With every kick he gave a prick,
Deep in the horse's side!

But soon the horse was well avenged,
For cruel smart of spurs,
For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze!

Where sharper set than hunger is
He squatted all forlorn;
And like a bird was singing out
While sitting on a thorn!

Right glad was he, as well as might be.
Such cushion to resign:
"Possession is nine points," but his
Seemed more than ninety nine.

Yet worse than all the prickly points
That enter'd in his skin,
His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in!