Street cries of the world

HOWEVER ugly be his look,
An honest fellow is Tom Brook,
 Who sells fine plaice and flounder;
Yet if he drink to such excess,
No difficulty ’tis to guess
 His smack will quickly founder.

Then, Tommy, pr’ythee now attend
The admonitions of a friend,
 Tho’ ’tis with pain I tell them;
Else quickly thou no more wilt tread
The streets with flounders on thy head,
 Nor longer live to sell them.

PRIDE of the woods! though not elate
With their own merits, next we wait
On strawberries, whose odour nice
Arabian incense far outvies;
Whose glowing cheek by far outgoes
The blushes of the new-born rose;
Whose stem no prickly thorns invade;
Whose modest face their foliage shade;
To whom the breath of British maids,
Though always sweet, with envy fades;
And who, with rural peace and love,
Thrive best beneath their native grove:
Your praise, whene’er the Muse will bring
Sweet inspiration, I will sing.

“GREEN Hastings, ho!” this fellow cries,
 As through the streets he passes;
“I’ll warrant they’ll prove wond’rous nice,
“Ye lads and buxom lasses.

“As sugar sweet, as grass they’re green,
 “I’ll give you ample measure,
“And when they’re nicely boil’d, I ween
 “Each customer they’ll pleasure.

“Come my good girls, your aprons hold
 “Your money, boys, be telling;
“Be quick, or all will soon be sold,
 “For these are worth the shelling.”

ITALIA‘s sun-burnt native here
 Does to your view display
His curious imitative ware,
 With gold and colours gay.

The cat and parrot here he shows,
 The poet and the priest,
With soldiers, sailors, belles and beaus,
 And many a nameless beast.

Edward and Tommy gazing stand,
 And each the show admires;
While puss is borne on Kitty’s hand,
 And Jane her bird admires.

NO cooper that patroles the street
 Compares to William Farrel,
A washing-tub for mending neat,
 Or hooping well a barrel.

Whene’er a vessel gets a bruise,
 By slipping off the stopper,
Old Farrel I would have you chuse,
 As soon as any cooper.

For as he liquor always lov’d,
 And ever would be tasting,
By this good maxim he is mov’d —
 “A sin depends on wasting.”

IMMERGED in a bed of sand,
 Her eels this woman carries,
Far as Old Shadwell to the Strand,
 And seldom stops or tarries.

A writer of no small renown
 This solid truth reveals,
That many folks in this great town
 More slipp’ry are than eels.

But O! that ev’ry rising youth
 May just and pious prove;
Then will his lips be fill’d with truth,
 His heart with filial love.

WHENE’ER, ye maids, the loud Dust Ho!
 Or his well-sounding bell ye hear,
Permit him through the house to go,
 That he your tubs from dirt may clear,

And when his cart is loaded well,
 His route he to the field pursues,
Where many lab’ring poor can tell,
 That even rubbish has its use.

Paper from rags, from bones an oil,
 From ashes fuel they procure,
E’en vegetables mend the soil,
 And form an excellent manure.

WHEN boist’rous winds and heavy rains
 Sweep o’er the chearless, sounding pool,
Or snow and chilling frost detains
 The ling’ring, shiv’ring boy from school.

Or when re-animating Spring
 Gaily embroiders ev’ry field,
While tuneful birds responsive sing,
 And op’ning flow’rs new odours yield.

This artless girl each morning cries,
 Her water-cresses through the town;
Then to her mother’s cot she hies,
 And, thankful, lays her earnings down.

MONTHS with an R in
Good oysters appear in;
But when the R‘s out, we
Suppose they are naughty:
In winter, however,
This fellow, so clever,
Will strive to content ye,
And serve you in plenty:
No Colchester oyster
Is sweeter or moister;
No Wainfleet or Melton
Such juice e’er was felt on,
Come then and make trial,
Without more denial.

WHEN fresh and from the sea quite new,
The mack’rel, with a glowing hue
Of red and purple, green and gold,
In rays most beauteous to behold,
At once attracts the astonish’d sight,
And tickles ev’ry appetite.
With judgment if you cook the dish,
Turbot’s, you say, the king of fish;
But mack’rel, when ’tis nicely drest,
You’ll grant to be the queen at least;
And I, for cod or turbot fine,
My mack’rel never will resign.

GREEN cucumbers, however nice,
By all who prudent are and wise,
And health prefer to choicest dainty,
Will ne’er be eaten in great plenty;
Their properties, so deadly cold,
Agree not with the human mould,
But oft to dangerous sickness move,
And sometimes actual poison prove:
Yet some will readily prefer
To wholesome food a cucumber,
Studious alone their taste to please,
And careless of their health and ease.

GREEN gooseberries are ever good,
 A nice light crust betwixt,
And wholesome cooling summer food,
 With milk and sugar mixt.

But see the wicked pilf’rer stand,
 With guilty, leering eyes,
Slily he stretches out his hand,
 To grasp the destin’d prize.

The Newgate turn-key views the fact,
 And thus predicts his doom: —
“He who so wickedly can act,
 “Shall to the gallows come.”

FOR roasted apples as he goes
 To school, young master lingers,
For by experience well he knows,
 They’ll warm his frozen fingers.

Children who can their lesson read,
 Nor blundering, nor skipping,
Will often, to their joy, be fee’d
 With a fine roasted pippin.

And when permission they obtain
 To scate upon the ice,
They’ll run to buy of Goody Lane,
 Whose fruit is always nice.