Classic Poem

Here lies the Horse beneath this Stone,
Who living, oft has lain on one:
A noble Steed, who, as he went,
Proclaim'd still his high Descent:
A proudly headed Nag he was,
And hence it often came to pass;
Tho' he his Feet nought valued,
He still stood much upon his Head.
He was no War-Horse, yet he knew
The Art to squat and lie perdu ;
Yea, many a Horse, long-train'd in Wars,
Had never half so many Scars:
There's only this small Diff'rence in't,
Theirs were Steel Wounds, but his of Flint.
He was no Hunter, nor did care
To follow Chace of Fox or Hare;
Yet had this Property of Hound,
He still was smelling on the Ground.
And tho' Dame Nature did not frame
Him for a Finder of the Game;
Yet were it lost, none certainly
Wou'd sooner stumble on't than he.
He was no Racer, as some say,
Tho' some conclude the other way;
And say, for Swiftness, he might run
Against the Horses of the Sun:
For tho' full swift Don Phaebus be,
This wou'd be sooner down than he:
For his Opinion Critick-Wit,
Does vary much in guessing it:
Some say he was Conformist bred,
He bow'd so low; but some this Steed
Think may for Nonconformist go,
At every thing he stumbles so.
Some think him Presbyter, 'cause he
Brings Rider down to Purity.
But some say no, for, by this knock,
He still throws Jocky from his Back.
Some for Rebaptist him bespatter,
For dipping Rider oft in Water;
But all no Quaker him conclude,
Because with Knee Respect he shew'd:
Some think him Papist, 'cause so prone
He was to worshipping of Stone:
Some think again, that Tripping he
Confutes Infallibility.
But most allow him (which is worse)
No more Religion than a Horse:
Well, now he's dead, nor Wonder is't,
For Mother-Earth long since he kist;
And what it was, full well did know,
To turn his Heels up long ago.
If any to enquire shall please
What caus'd his Death, 'twas a Disease,
Call'd Epilepse by learned Leech ,
But Falling-Sickness in plain Speech.
And to confirm it for a Truth,
He often foamed at the Mouth.
And our good Coroner finds he hath,
By his own stumbling, caus'd his Death.
In King's Highway, pray let him rest,
With this Inscription on his Breast:
Here lies the Horse, that fell and rose before,
But now (the Learned say) must rise no more.