THE
Humours of RAG-FAIR,
OR, THE
Countryman's description of their several Trades
and Callings.
|
LAST Week in Lent I came to Town,
|
And having a leisure hour,
|
I went to see his Majesty's Crown,
|
And the Lions in the Tower,
|
But losing my way I chanced to stray,
|
Through a lane of second-hand taylors,
|
Till stopt with surprize at the noise of the cries,
|
Of a hundred different dealers.
|
Do you want a coat or a vest young man,
|
To dress in this good Easter,
|
Here is breeches (fellow them if you can,)
|
You shall have them for a teaster,
|
A plad banyan, for barber's man,
|
And fustian frocks for bakers,
|
Cheap left off cloaths for Spittalfields beaus,
|
And black for Undertakers.
|
Here are ruffled shirts, and cambrick stocks,
|
For young men to lie clean in,
|
With nice tucker'd Helland smocks,
|
And choice of child-bed linen.
|
Likewise clean sheeting for folks to lie sweet in,
|
Girls a nice dimitty dicket:
|
A good pair of sleeves you may wash when you please,
|
And tack them to a foul smicket.
|
Here are stockings for young women too,
|
Not darn'd above the quarter,
|
With clocks of white, or red or blue,
|
All flourish'd to the garter;
|
Knit hose for men or boys from ten,
|
With silk for those that strut it,
|
You may have them whole with their own soals,
|
Or neatly darn'd or footed.
|
Come customers who buys my shoes,
|
Or pumps, scarce worse for wearing,
|
I had them a bargain from the meuse,
|
Of a woman who goes a chairing;
|
Five groats a pair, search all the fair,
|
And see if you can match them,
|
The shops are so nice, they'll have a good price,
|
Although they clout and patch them.
|
Here's choice of perriwigs who'll buy?
|
I'll sell you as cheap as any,
|
You're welcome, sir, to come and try,
|
Besides I shave for a penny.
|
Do you flaxen lack, or a good coal black,
|
With a buckle as strong as wire?
|
Those left off greys I can surely praise,
|
And warrant them to the buyer.
|
Who buys my felt or carolone?
|
There's none will sell you cheaper,
|
For Sundays here's a beaver fine,
|
Bought from a broken draper,
|
You may have them large at a small charge,
|
For quaker or for curate;
|
Lac'd hats for those that are quarter deck'd beaus
|
Ne'er turn'd but once I assure it.
|
All smoaking hot a groat a pound,
|
My plain or sweet plumb pudding,
|
The flour was the best in the market found,
|
And all the ingredients good in;
|
I make it neat and give good weight,
|
My pound is sixteen ounces,
|
Yet (by the bye) she tells you a lie,
|
For all she brags and bounces.
|
Here's pancakes in cook's dripping fry'd,
|
I sell them for a penny,
|
They're crisp and brown, and have been try'd,
|
To-day by a good many;
|
My sausages and black puddings please,
|
I speak it without a vapour,
|
For a penny a-piece you may have what is nice,
|
And I'm sure you can't dine cheaper.
|
Here's houshold bread for families large,
|
And stale bread for the city,
|
Come buy all you that have got a charge,
|
Of me that can't outwit ye,
|
To you that buys I warrant the size,
|
As my Lord Mayor would have it,
|
I hate words many, I'll bare you a penny,
|
You are welcome to take it or leave it.
|
Here's bacon as sweet as any nut,
|
Or neighbours never trust me,
|
Although they know it was yesterday but,
|
They bought it themselves for rusty,
|
See this how fat, how streaky that,
|
Though cheat you while they are vending,
|
And surely cheat you an ounce in the weight,
|
Yet swear they give you a mending.
|
Here are joints of mutton from Leadenhall,
|
And beef from Honey-lane Market;
|
I always keep what's prime at stall,
|
Thus the cunning butchers clark it,
|
A prince may eat of my stall fatted meat,
|
Though I loose in each pound a farthing,
|
But pray take care, his stilliards are fair,
|
Or you are surely bit in the bargain.
|
Here is measly pork and vile slink calf,
|
In trays at gully holes selling,
|
I had rather been at home by half,
|
At dinner at my own dwelling;
|
To sell such meat for folks to eat,
|
enough to breed an infection.
|
If such folks were down in our good town,
|
They'd be sent to the house of correction.
|
Here are wonderful purging pills,
|
Which Doctor Rock rehearses,
|
Which all the dreadful poison kills,
|
Suck'd in by foul embraces,
|
Such plaisters for corns, such powder for worms,
|
Were never before set on trial,
|
Good people who prize the sight of your eyes,
|
Come purchase my little phial.
|
In Watch-house cage I next did view,
|
A strolling black eyed Susan,
|
Who only took a guinea or two,
|
From a sailor who had to loose them,
|
The impudent whore the justice before,
|
Said in her examination,
|
The money in full she had from a cull,
|
For to please his inclination.
|
Pick pockets too mix'd in the throng,
|
For hard by liv'd their nurses,
|
Good people when you pass along,
|
I pray take care of your purses,
|
And handkerchiefs for these young thieves,
|
Ne'er hope for absolution,
|
But proceed in sin till turn'd off with a grin,
|
At a Tyburn Execution.
|
Then here and there you find a stall,
|
Set up by young beginners;
|
The houses too are rented alll,
|
By publicans and sinners,
|
Walk in sir, here's the Alderman's beer,
|
And a clear Newcastle fire,
|
I'll make you a pot of the best gin hot,
|
Or anything else you require.
|
Some were smoaking some at cards,
|
And some are with chaps dealing,
|
Some were civil and some black guards,
|
All people have their failing.
|
I paid of my score and went out of door,
|
Maintaining this opinion,
|
That no price of state besides Britain the great,
|
Hath such a fair in his dominion.
|
|
|
|
|
|