s neck at that!
He snorted with pride and pleasure!
Like the Steed in the fable so lofty and grand,
Who gave the poor Ass to understand
That _he_ didn't carry a bag of sand,
But a burden of golden treasure.

LXXXVII.

A load of treasure?--alas! alas!
Had her horse been fed upon English grass,
And shelter'd in Yorkshire spinneys,
Had he scour'd the sand with the Desert Ass,
Or where the American whinnies--
But a hunter from Erin's turf and gorse,
A regular thoroughbred Irish horse,
Why, he ran away, as a matter of course,
With a girl worth her weight in guineas!

LXXXVIII.

Mayhap 'tis the trick of such pamper'd nags
To shy at the sight of a beggar in rags,--
But away, like the bolt of a rabbit,--
Away went the horse in the madness of fright,
And away went the horsewoman mocking the sight--
Was yonder blue flash a flash of blue light,
Or only the skirt of her habit?

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