The sheriffs were Ciceros a-piece;
Lord Crowther was sick, though he managed to eat
What, if races were feasts, would have won him the plate;
But he tossed off a bumper to Greece.
"'Then all was enchantment—all hubbub and smiles—
The wit of Old Jewry, the grace of St. Giles,
The force of the Billingsgate tongue:
Till the eloquent Lord Mayor demanding 'Who malts?'—
The understood sign for beginning the waltz—
In a fright through the ceiling I sprung.'"