A New Copy of Verses, Containing
A Catalogue of Taylors
Which will be exposed to Sale by Auction, at the Sign of the
Six Cross Cucumbers and Cuckolds-Cap near Cabbage-Coart , the Sale beginning on Monday
next by Nine in the Morning, and to continue till all be dispos'd of.
To the Tune of An Orange.
Licensed according to Order.
|
Young lasses draw near, good news you shall hear,
|
You now may Buy notable Husbands ne'er fear,
|
Kate, Nancy and Nell , we'll use you all well,
|
We have about Seventeen Taylors to sell
|
Now by Auction.
|
You may understand there's Tom in the Strand,
|
That has neither Silver nor Gold at Command,
|
A Taylor by Trade, like Bully Array'd,
|
You may have a Penniworth of this huffing Blade
|
At the Auction.
|
There's William beside, of dext'rous Pride
|
Whose Wife I must tell ye last Whitsontide dy'd
|
A brawny brisk Lad, whose Colour is sad,
|
For five or six Shillings he is to be had
|
At the Auction.
|
Near Exeter-street, a Taylor compleat,
|
A curious inventer of Fashions most neat,
|
Couragious and Bold, scarce Thirty years Old,
|
This Jolly brisk Taylor he is to be sold
|
At the Auction.
|
A Taylor precise, indifferent Wise,
|
You'll find that he is of a midling size,
|
Come Bridget and Bess, I vow and profess
|
He is to be bought for a Tester or less
|
At the Auction.
|
Hard by Leaden-hall close under a Wall,
|
A Taylor that sits in a Bulk or a Stall,
|
A lover of Ale, whose Visage is Pale,
|
Next Monday he will be exposed to Sale
|
At the Auction.
|
As I am alive not far from Queen-Hive,
|
There dwells a young Taylor who now does con-trive
|
To be mention'd here, for it does appear
|
He brings along with him right delicate Gear
|
At the Auction.
|
There's Morgan and Will, welsh Thavid and Phill,
|
Who lives in the middle of Cucumber-Hill,
|
With Wit they are fraught, and yet for a Groat,
|
These four bonny Taylors are now to be bought
|
At the Auction.
|
We have seven more, indifferent poor,
|
Who han't yearn'd a penny this six weeks and more
|
Some short, and some long, some feeble and strong
|
You may have the seventeen for an old Song
|
At the Auction.
|
A Taylor all black, who happen'd to Crack
|
The Cords of his Conscience, when Coyn he did lack,
|
Altho' he may huff, like Soldier in Buff,
|
He is to be bought for a meer wooden Ruff,
|
At the Auction.
|
Near St. Clements-lane, stout Tom does remain,
|
Of whom there's no woman alive can complain,
|
He'll please and delight full sixteen a night,
|
We fear that young Lasses for Thomas will fight.
|
At the Auction.
|
This Cucumber Crew begins to look blew,
|
For why, they have little or nothing to do,
|
Therefore a cast stock of Taylors do flock,
|
And beg to be put in this new Catalogue
|
For the Auction.
|
The Taylors with Tears, they swear by their sheers,
|
And wish if they lye they may loose all their Ears,
|
Their Trade is so dead they scarce can get bread,
|
And therefore by hundreds they now run a head
|
To the Auction,
|
Poor Robin he cry'd, and often reply'd,
|
That e're since a week before last Whitsontide,
|
No Cabbage God wot, had fell to his lot,
|
For this very reason he swears he will trot
|
To the Auction.
|
|
|
|
|
|