Front matter

"Garrit aniles Ex re fabellas." HOR. Sat. Lib. 11. vi. 77.

Fiddlers, awake! Rouse up, ye fife and drum! Clarion and trumpet, lo! I bid thee come! Blow up, tin horn, twang, harp of unbelievers![1] Bring me your aid, ye marrow bones and cleavers! Strike up at once, to celebrate this day! Who'd not be jolly, and who'd not be gay? I little thought such happy times to see, Such bliss, such joys, a sheriff's Ma to be! Is't true? can such felicity be mine? It glads me more than all my currant wine![2] Or do I dream? or are my senses flown? It's very strange, and mighty queer, I own, But yet I am, I must be, Mrs. Van![3] If I ain't, who is? who, good Heavens! can? I see my cupboards full, and running o'er, With tamarinds, nuts, and many a luscious store; There's my old chair, and here the oaken presses All full of mildew and brocaded dresses, Fashion'd in times of yore, when in the throng Of dazzling courtiers, as they pass'd along The palace halls, my grandam stood confess'd By all to be most beautifully dress'd; There's my old shay, and there the red-nosed Bob Who drives me slow, nor tires with the job. It must be true, I must be Mrs. Van, The Sheriff's Ma, disprove it ye who can! And ye, the crowds,[4] who various duties tend In this our own snug circle at Cane End, Dismiss your labours, and with mirth and glee Bellow hurrahs for Henry and for me! Know for your feast (for now no English sinner Can e'er do anything without a dinner); Fox-hunters, statesmen, parsons, 'tis the same, And even sheriffs must partake the blame: For rumour tells me, shocking to relate, That at the "Star" 'twill be my Henry's fate O'er the Grand Jury Dinner to preside, And last, not least, believe me, pay beside. Sure I have had the kitchen table spread With mutton bones, and sundry pounds of bread;[5] Water in plenty, and (though very dear) Two gallons of strong treble X small beer! Drink if ye can! the beer's so very small I think there'll almost be enough for all! Drink! sing! rejoice! but let the Sheriff's praise Afford a subject for your roundelays!

Bottom. "Where are these lads, Where are these hearts?" Midsummer Night's Dream, act iv. sc. 2.

Hail, happy day, our only holiday! Hurrah, for old Cane End! Hip, hip, hip! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah Our master's a sheriff! A sheriff, a sheriff, hurrah!

Hail, happy day, our only holiday! Hurrah for Mrs. Van! Hip, hip, hip! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah Our master's a sheriff, A sheriff, a sheriff, hurrah!

Hail happy day, our glorious holiday! Hurrah for the sheriff! Hip, hip, hip! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! Our master's a sheriff, A sheriff, a sheriff, hurrah!