THE LAY OF THE HIGH SHERIFF.

Who'd be a sheriff, I should like to know, With all this fuss and bother, teasing so? These three last weeks I've not had any time To sleep in quiet, eat, or drink my wine, Though 'tis but little wine that I imbibe; 'Tis sleep I love, past all the world beside. My moments once were calm from nine at night; My dreams were pleasant and my slumbers light Till next day's noon; but now 'tis alter'd quite. O Sleep! thou loveliest of the gifts divine From God to man, would thou again were mine, To hide the visions which for ever seem Haunting my fever'd moments, of the team Of Waddell's[1] jaded, miserable tits, Which, ere the rail had knock'd their trade to bits, In the "Tantivy" once so gaily pranced, When Cheeseman's[2] bugle all our ears entranced, And Sal'sbury[3] work'd his then fast-trotting bays, Now the sad emblems of regretted days! Of wigs and judges, barristers and ermine, Murders and felons, I can scarce determine Whether on head or heels I rightly stand, Wholly perplex'd, a very fish on land. Swords and cock'd hats, with all my other dress, O'erload my fancies and my brain oppress; Where can I get a carriage for the judge? To pay Brown[4] thirty Guas,[5] I own, I grudge; What's to be done? A coach must needs be had. A coach! but stay, the thought is none so bad, I'll think me who, of all the people near, Sport coaches, if I don't, whip me, that's clear; The first coach-sporting neighbour that I know is My best of friends, the worthy Squire Powys; Yes! his will do, I'll ask for it to-morrow; 'Twill save me much vexation, toil, and sorrow. But will it do? Ah, stay! I fear me no! There's something whispers, "Van," this here's no go; 'Tis far too coachy, far too like the drags Of which our noted Oxford builder[6] brags. Indeed, you'd live to hear the judges say, "Good Mr. Sheriff! What's the fare to pay?" Had you that coach; besides, there's Master Phil[7] To poke his fun, as well you know he will. Next the bold captain's cumbersome and old. Old as its owner, Rattletrappy, cold; 'Twon't do! but now, I think me, Mr. Reade[8] Of Ipsden, he's the man to serve my need. I recollect when I at Ipsden call'd One day last week, with wondering gaze enthrall'd, I spied his carriage standing at the door, New lined, new varnish'd and new painted o'er, Crests, arms, and all the proper blazonry Pomps and achievements, known in heraldry, Cushions well-stuff'd, well padded, and behind A charming footboard, suited to the mind Of any London "figure man" who clings Behind the well-appointed coach, that wings Its course down Bond Street, or the crowded rings Of that proud rendezvous of fashion yclept the Park. And what though arms and crest unlike my own Glare on its surface? who's to make it known,— No walking Gwyllim, Clarencieux, or Rouge Dragon Infests our streets, to put an envious gag on My borrow'd arms and crests. That I'll rely on. One care's at rest;—but now my liveries claim My next attention, and my thoughts' best aim: What shall the coats be? blue turn'd up with green, And smalls contrived of darkest velveteen? Or green with blue, and (pray don't, Ladies, blush,) Continuations built of crimson plush? 'Tis passing hard for one, unskill'd as me In dress, and such-like senseless vanity, Such things to settle—would I had a wife! I never long'd for one so in my life (Not e'en when Jessica's fair hand I pray'd, And struggled hard, with anxious hopes delay'd,) As now, to bid some gorgeous liveries rise To grace my servants and astound the eyes Of wondering freshmen, javelineers, and Dons.[9] I'll to my mother, she can best advise, In coats and smalls she's wonderfully wise (Who says she wears the latter not, he lies.) When we've determined what the men shall wear, Then in the shay to Letchworth's we'll repair; He from his hoards of cloth blue, red, and green, Shall rig out liveries such as ne'er were seen. Such are my cares, and oh! I must confess I feel much trembling and sad nervousness; I've suffer'd much anxiety of late, Dread are my prospects, painful is my fate When I consider how the judge to meet! Make a low bow, or fall down at his feet;— And then my sword! 'twill sure be very queer, Lest it upset me clean I greatly fear— Powers of Impudence! assist, I pray, Give me some brass, and teach me how to say,— "Good day, your lordships, welcome to our city."[10] Of Oxford, now I'm Sheriff—more's the pity. 'Tis said, 'tis good, our griefs and joys t'impart To kindly souls, and many a sorrowing heart Where brooded hopeless, melancholy grief, From sympathising friends has drawn relief. May it be so with me! full many an hour I've funk'd and stew'd[11] to think what earthly power Could nerve me up sufficiently to fill (The heart being sadly wanting, not the will,) My Sheriff's office; even now a gleam Of hope, though far, far off, is dimly seen By my mind's eye,[12] new light within me burns, Some welcome sprite my fear to courage turns, Makes glad my heart, and bids my spirits rise! What ho! within, some brandy and mince pies! Uncork a bottle of that curious wine Which once belonged to that grandfather mine Who first from Holland, settled at Cane End. Bring up, I say, a bottle! pray luck send It be a good one! for 'tis true enough It's either quite tip-top, or horrid stuff, Like Thoyt's horse,[13] of which I knowledge had Extremely good, or else extremely bad! Here is a bottle! ah! 'tis wondrous kind, Brilliant and sparkling, suited to the mind Of more than sheriff, aldermanic quite! I'll floor the bottle, then I'll say, "Good night"[14]