The Old Pudding-pye Woman set forth in her colours, etc.
Of all the rare and various London cryes,
There's none that doth excel Hot Pudding-Pyes:
Each one that hears it, being bit with hunger,
Would wish himself to be a Pudding Monger;
For many likes such Victuals for the nones,
Because in Pudding-Pyes there is no bones.
To a rare new Tune much in use, or, There was an Old Wife.
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THere was a Old wife
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and she sold Pudding-pyes,
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She went to the Mill
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and the dust blew into her eyes:
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She has Hot Puddings
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and Cold Puddings to sell,
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Where ever she goes
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you may follow her by the smell.
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Betimes in the morning
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out of her bed she will pack,
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And give you all warning
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with a loud thundering crack:
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Then coughing and spitting,
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& Rubbing, & Scrubbing her thighs,
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She hangs on her Cloaths
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and away to sell Pudding-pyes.
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She calls up her Neighbors
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for to go and fuddle a Pot,
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Because to go fasting
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O she likes it not;
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Her Bub she doth tipple
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and then having cleared her eyes
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She goes to the Oven
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to fetch her Pudding-pyes.
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O Baker quoth she
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I prethy do not me cozen,
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I am an Old wife
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tell fifteen to the dozen;
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For by that means
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my profit doth fairly rise,
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Or else I must never
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more cry Pudding-pyes.
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AT every Corner
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and in every street,
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This Pudding-pye-woman
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be sure you oft shall meet;
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With Basket on head
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and hand on her Butock she cryes,
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Come here all away
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that will buy Hot Pudding-pyes.
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She hath a long Nose
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and often the same doth drop,
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A piece of Hot Pudding
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would make a dainty Sop,
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Her Beetle-brow forehead
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hangs quite over her eyes,
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She scarcely can see
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to sell her Pudding-pyes,
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Her hands she doth wash
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but twice three times in a year,
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The print of her fingers
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doth fair on her Puddings appear
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She's two yards about,
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which you I say is a pretty size,
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For an Old wife
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that doth sell Hot Pudding-pyes,
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In Winter you may
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behold her dragled Tail,
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And lagging she goes
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along just like a Snail,
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All sprinkled with mire
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a handful about her thighs,
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You that have good stomachs
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come buy her Pudding-pyes.
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At Noon and at Night
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this Firkin of stuff doth wag,
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Some money to take
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to put in her greasie bag:
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I wish she would make me
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her Heir when ever she dyes,
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Then I shall have money
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for all her Pudding-pyes.
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Her Puddings are fat,
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in Summer they use to fry
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With heat of the Sun,
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or else she hath told a lye:
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But what she puts in them
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I swear I cannot devize,
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Then buy and you'l try
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how you like her Pudding-pyes.
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She had a young Daughter
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that takes after her Mother,
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And will be as like her
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as one Pea's like another;
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If any young Man have
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a mind to such a Rare prize,
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He shall have her Daughter
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and all her Pudding-pyes.
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And thus you may see
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how I this Woman describe,
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'Tis nothing to me
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I'm sure she'l give me no Bribe,
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But I am content
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since that I have told no lyes,
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Then farewel to those
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that do cry Hot Pudding-pyes,
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