The Fox-Chace, XX

And now old Milfield’s town they gain, And reach dark Flodden’s dreary plain, Where, in full cry, and all abreast, The hounds the wily villain pressed: The Goblin Groom still keeps his place, And glories in the varying chace; No demi volte, nor demi air; No high curvett, nor terre-a-terre; No hand to guide the gay croupade, Nor heel to aid the balotade; No capriole his skill to shew; He these disdained, with pas et saut. Stiff on his stirrups, standing now, He scorns to touch the saddle bow; His elbows squared, and head awry, As if he rode a race; But none might know, for none might spy, The Goblin’s spell-bound face: For were he sprite, or were he fay, He only shewed his back that day.