135

140

*

Which made his horse's flanks to smoke,
As they had basted * been.

But still he seemed to carry weight
With leathern girdle braced;

*

For all might see the bottle necks
Still dangling at his waist.

Thus all through merry Islington *
These gambols he did play,

Until he came unto the, Washi

Of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the Wash about,
On both sides of the way,

Just like unto a trundling mop,

Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife

From the balcony * espied*

Her tender husband, wond'ring much
To see how he did ride.

145 "Stop, stop, John Gilpin !-Here's the house!

150

They all at once did cry;

"The dinner waits, and we are tired;
Said Gilpin "So am I!"

But yet his horse was not a whit *
Inclined to tarry there;

For why? His owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.*

So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;

155 So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.

Trice, a short time,
an instant.
Turnpike men, the
toll-keepers. A turn-
pike is a gate put
across a road to stop
those who have to
pay toll.
Reeking, steaming.
Twain, two.

Piteous, causing pity.

Baste, to pour fat over meat whilst roasting.

Braced, fastened.

Islington, one of the northern suburbs of London.

Balcony, a kind of
small gallery outside
a house.
Espied, saw.

Whit, the least bit.

Ware,
a town in
Hertfordshire, on the
river Lea.

Trim, state, position.

Accost, to speak to any one.

Timely, at the right time.

Guise, manner.

Away went Gilpin out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calender's
His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see

*

His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted* him :-

160

"What news? What news! Your tidings tell! 165 Tell me you must and shall-—

Say why bareheaded you are come,

Or why you come at all."

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely * joke ;

And thus unto the calender,

In merry guise * he spoke

"I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forebode,*

They are upon the road."

170

175

Forebode, foretell.

My hat and wig will soon be here—

Wedding day, it was Said John, "It is my wedding-day,*

the anniversary of his wedding.

And all the world would stare,

If wife should dine at Edmonton
And I should dine at Ware."

190

195

200

So turning to his horse, he said,

"I am in haste to dine;

'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine."

Ah, luckless speech! ah, bootless * boast !
For which he paid full dear;
For, while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;

205 Whereat his horse did snort, as he *
Had heard a lion roar,

210

And galloped off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first-
For why they were too big.

Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting* down

215 Into the country far away,

220

She pulled out half-a-crown :

And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell,

"This shall be yours, when you bring back
My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain,"

*

Whom in a trice* he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein :

225 But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,

230

The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,

*

The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumb'ring* of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

235 With postboy scampering in the rear,*
They raised the hue and cry:

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.-Kingsley.

He

THE REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875) was born in Devonshire. distinguished himself as a poet, historian, novelist, &c. From 1859 till 1870 he was Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. He was the author of Alton Locke, Westward Ho, Town Geology, The Roman and the Teuton, Madam How and Lady Why, &c.

WELCOME, Wild North-easter!
Shame it is to see

Odes* to every zephyr ;
Ne'er a verse to thee.

Welcome, black North-easter!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,

Tired of gaudy glare,*
Showers soft and steaming,

Hot and breathless air.

Tired of listless * dreaming,
Through the lazy day :
Jovial wind of winter,

*

Turn us out to play!

5

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