Part 16

Who such Cherries would see, And not tempted be To wish he possessed a small share? But observe, I say small, For those who want all Deserve not to taste of such fare.

_Buy a Mop! Buy a Broom! Good to-day! Buy a Broom! Buy a Mop, I say!_

Ye cleanly housewives come to me, And buy a Mop or Broom, To sweep your chambers, scour your stairs, Or wash your sitting room.

_Golden Pippins, all of the right sort, girls! Golden Pippins, all of the right sort, boys!_

Here are fine Golden Pippins; Who'll buy them, who'll buy? Nobody in London sells better than I! Who'll buy them, who'll buy?

_Wash Ball, a Trinket, or a Watch, buy? Buy 'em, all cheap and all good!_

Do ye want any Wash Ball or Patch.-- Dear ladies, pray, buy of me;-- Or Trinkets to hang at your Watch, Or Garters to tie at your knee?

_Past twelve o'clock, and a cloudy morning! Past twelve o'clock; and mind, I give you warning!_

Past twelve o'clock, and a moonlight night! Past twelve o'clock, and the stars shine bright! Past twelve o'clock, your doors are all fast like you! Past twelve o'clock, and I'll soon be fast, too!

_Young Lambs to sell! Young Lambs to sell! Young Lambs to sell! Young Lambs to sell!_

Young Lambs to sell! Young Lambs to sell! Two a penny, Young Lambs to sell; If I'd as much money as I could tell, I wouldn't cry young Lambs to sell.

_Buy my sweet and rare Lilies of the Valley? Buy of your Sally--Sally of our Alley?_

In London street, I ne'er could find, A girl like lively Sally, Who picks and culls, and cries aloud, Sweet Lilies of the Valley.

_Buy my young chickens! Buy'em alive, O! Buy of the Fowlman, and have 'em alive, O!_

Buy my young Chickens, or a Fowl, well-fed, And we'll not quarrel about the price; 'Tis thus I get my daily bread: As all the year round my Fowls are very nice.

_Green Peas, I say! Green Peas, I say, here, Hav'em at your own price--here! here!_

Sixpence a peck, these Peas are sold, Fresh and green, and far from old; Green Marrows, it is quite clear, And as times go, cannot be dear.

_Hat Box! Cap Box! Boxes, all sizes; All good, and at very low prices._

Hat or Cap Box! for ribbons or lace, When in a Box, keep in their place; And in a Box, your favourite bonnet Is safe from getting things thrown on it.

_Eels, fine Silver Eels! Dutch Eels! They are all alive--Silver Eels!_

Eels, alive! fine Dutch eels, I cry, Mistress, to use you well I'm willing, Come step forth and buy-- Take four pounds for one shilling.

_Plumbs, ripe Plumbs! Big as your thumbs! Plumbs! Plumbs! Big as your thumbs!_

Plumbs, for puddings or pies, This noisy woman bawls; Plumbs, for puddings or pies, In every street she calls.

_Buy a Purse; a long and a strong Purse! A good leather or a strong mole-skin Purse!_

Buy a Purse; a long and strong Purse, They'll suit the young--they suit the old! To lose good money, what is worse? Yet it's daily done for the want of a purse.

_Kettles to mend! any Pots to mend? Daily I say as my way I wend._

Kettles to mend! any pots to mend! You cannot do better to me than send; Think of the mess when the saucepans run, The fire put out, and the dinner not done.

My daddy was a tinker's son, And I'm his boy, 'tis ten to one, Here's pots to mend! was still his cry, Here's pots to mend! aloud bawl I. Have ye any tin pots, kettles or cans, Coppers to solder, or brass pans? Of wives my dad had near a score, And I have twice as many more: My daddy was the lord--I don't know who-- With his:-- Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan, For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

Once I in my budget snug had got A barn-door capon, and what not, Here's pots to mend! I cried along-- Here's pots to mend! was my song. At village wake--oh! curse his throat, The cock crowed so loud a note, The folks in clusters flocked around, They seized my budget, in it found The cock, a gammon, peas and beans, Besides a jolly tinker. Yes, a jolly tinker-- With his-- Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan, For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

Like dad, when I to quarters come, For want of cash the folks I hum, Here's kettles to mend: Bring me some beer! The landlord cries, "You'll get none here! You tink'ring dog, pay what you owe, Or out of doors you'll instant go," In rage I squeezed him 'gainst the door, And with his back rubb'd off the score. At his expense we drown all strife For which I praise the landlord's wife-- With my Tan ran tan, tan ran tan tan, For pot or can, oh! I'm your man.

_Fine China Oranges, sweet as sugar! They are very fine, and cheap, too, to-day._

If friends permit, and money suits, The tempting purchase make; But, first, examine well the fruit, And then the change you take.

Here are Oranges, fine ripe Oranges, Of golden colour to the eye, And fragrant perfume they're dispensing, Sweeter than roses; come then and buy. Flowers cannot give forth the fragrance That scents the air from my golden store, Fairest lady, none can excel them, Buy then my Oranges; buy, I implore.

Here are Oranges, fine ripe Oranges, Golden globes of nectar fine, Luscious juice the gods might envy, Richer far than the finest wine. Flowers cannot give forth the fragrance That scents the air from my golden store, Fairest lady, none can excel them, Buy then my Oranges; buy, I implore.

ROUND FOR FOUR VOICES.

SIR. J. STEVENSON.

Come buy my cherries, beauteous lasses; Fresh from the garden pluck'd by me; All on a summer's day, so gay, You hear the London Cries--"_Knives ground here by me_."

Fine apples and choice pears, Eat, boys, forget your cares; All on a summer's day, so gay, You hear the London Cries--"_Sweep, sweep, sweep_."

Fruit in abundance sold by me, Fruit in abundance here you see; All on a summer's day, so gay, You hear the London Cries--"_Parsnips, carrots, and choice beans_."

Whey, fine sweet whey, Come taste my whey; All on a summer's day, so gay, You hear the London Cries--"_Fine radish, fine lettuce, sold by me_."

PRIMROSES.

Come who'll buy my roses, Primroses, who'll buy? They are sweet to the sense, they are fair to the eye; They are covered all o'er with diamond dew, Which Aurora's bright handmaids unsparingly threw On their beautiful heads: and I ask but of you-- _To buy, buy, buy, buy_.

The sun kiss'd the flowers as he rose from the sea bright, And their golden eyes opened with beauty and glee bright, Their sweets are untasted by hornet or bee-- They are fresh as the morning and lovely to see-- So reject not the blossoms now offered by me-- _But buy, buy, buy, buy_.

Nay, never refuse me, nor cry my buds down, They are nature's production, and sweet ones, you'll own; And tho' torn from the earth, they will smile in your hall, They will bloom in a cottage, be it ever so small-- And still look the lovliest flowers of all! _So buy, buy, buy, buy._

THE LONDON CRIES IN LONDON STREETS.

_Embellished with Pretty Cuts, For the use of Good little Boys and Girls, and a Copy of Verses._

Printed by T. BIRT, Great St. Andrew Street, Wholesale & Retail, 30, Seven Dials, London.

_Country Orders punctually attended to._

EVERY DESCRIPTION OF PRINTING DONE CHEAP.

TRAVELLERS AND SHOPKEEPERS SUPPLIED WITH SHEET HYMNS, PATTERS, AND SLIP SONGS, AS CHEAP AND GOOD AS ANY SHOP IN LONDON.

T. BIRT.

TO THE GOOD LITTLE MASTERS AND MISTRESSES IN TOWN AND COUNTRY.

Here! look at the Cries of London town, For you need not travel there; But view you those of most renown, Whilst sitting in your chair.

At Home--a hundred miles away, 'Tis easy now to look At the Cries of London gay, In this our little book.

Yes; there in quiet you may be, Beside the winter's fire, And read as well as see, All those that you desire.

Or underneath the oak so grey, That grows beside the briar; May pass the summer's eve away, And view each City Crier.

In the Gazette great news, to-day: The enemy is beat, they say, And all are eager to be told-- The news, the new events unfold.

Come buy my fine roses, My myrtles and stocks; My sweet smelling balsams And close growing box.

My Almanacks aim at no learning at all, But only to show when the holidays fall: And tell, as by study we easily may, How many eclipses the year will display.

My Mop is so big, It might serve as a wig For a judge, had he no objection; And as to my brooms, They will sweep dirty rooms, And make the dust fly, to perfection.

Here's lobsters and crabs, Alive, O! and good, So buy if you please; This delicate food.

Rich Milk from the Cow, Both sweet and fine; The doctors declare; It is better than wine.

Buy a basket? large or small? For all sorts I've got by me, So come ye forth, one and all, If you buy once, another time you'll try me.

I've Sticks and Canes for old and young, To either they are handy, In driving off a barking cur, Or chastising a dandy.

Hot Rice-Milk this woman calls-- Behold her bright can, As up and down the streets she bawls Hot Rice-Milk to warm the inner man.

Nice Peaches and Nectarines Just fresh from the tree; All you who have money, Come buy them of me.

Hot Spice-Gingerbread, hot! hot! all hot! This noisy fellow loudly bawls, Hot! hot! hot! smoking hot! red hot! In every street or public place he calls.

COME, BUY MY SPICE-GINGERBREAD, SMOKING HOT! HOT! HOT!

Come, boys and girls, men and maids, widows and wives, The best penny laid out you e'er spent in your lives; Here's my whirl-a-gig lottery, a penny a spell, No blanks, but all prizes, and that's pretty well. Don't stand humming and ha-aring, with ifs and with buts, Try your luck for my round and sound gingerbread-nuts; And there's my glorious spice-gingerbread, too, Hot enough e'en to thaw the heart of a Jew.

Hot spice-gingerbread, hot! hot! all hot! Come, buy my spice-gingerbread, smoking hot!

I'm a gingerbread-merchant, but what of that, then? All the world, take my word, deal in gingerbread ware; Your fine beaus and your belles and your rattlepate rakes-- One half are game-nuts, the rest gingerbread cakes; Then in gingerbread coaches we've gingerbread lords, And gingerbread soldiers with gingerbread swords. And what are you patriots, 'tis easy to tell-- By their constantly crying they've something to sell. And what harm is there in selling--_hem!_--

Hot spice-gingerbread, &c.

My gingerbread-lottery is just like the world, For its index of chances for ever is twirled; But some difference between'em exist, without doubt, The world's lottery has blanks, while mine's wholly without, There's no matter how often you shuffle and cut, If but once in ten games you can get a game-nut. So I laugh at the world, like an impudent elf, And just like my betters, take care of myself, and my--

Hot spice-gingerbread, &c.

T. BIRT, Printer, 30, Great St. Andrews Street, Seven Dials.

_Marks Edition._ THE NEW LONDON CRIES OR A VISIT TO TOWN.

From morn till eve I rove along, And joys my eyes illume, If you but listen to my song, And kindly buy a broom.

RIPE CHERRIES.

Cherries ripe four-pence a pound, Come buy of me they're good and sound.

WATER CRESSES.

O you whom peace and plenty blesses, Buy my fine spring water cresses.

YOUNG PEDLAR.

Threads laces bodkins here I cry, Of a wandering orphan buy.

OYSTERS SIR.

My native oysters here I cry, Gents and ladies come and buy.

OLD CLOTHES.

Daily streets and squares I range Calling clothes to sell or change.

YOUNG LAMBS.

In London streets I'm known full well, Two for a penny young lambs to sell.

DOLLS TO SELL.

Come buy a doll my little miss, You'll find no time as good as this.

GREENS CABBAGES HO.

London daily hears my cry, Carrots Turnips who will buy.

BONNET BOX.

Buy a Box for hat and cap, 'Twill keep them safe from all mishap.

FLOWER GIRL.

My basket daily I supply, Come buy my nosegays buy who'll buy.

IMAGES.

My casts are form'd to get my bread, And humble shelter for my head.

MILK BELOW.

At rise of morn my rounds I go, And daily cry my milk below.

BALLAD SINGER.

Listen to my tunes so gay, And buy a ballad of me pray.

SWEEP SOOT HO.

Comfort from my toil you reap, Then pray employ a little sweep.

London: Printed and Published by S. MARKS & SONS, 72, Houndsditch.

THE CRIES OF LONDON.

FLOWERY WARE--ALL HOT!

Here's taters hot, my little chaps, Now just lay out a copper, I'm known up and down the Strand, You'll not find any hotter.

LONDON: GOODE, BROS., WHOLESALE STATIONERS AND TOY BOOK MANUFACTURERS, CLERKENWELL GREEN.

CHERRIES, MY PRETTY MAIDS.

Here's cherries, oh! my pretty maids, My cherries round and sound; Whitehearts, Kentish, or Blackhearts And only twopence a pound.

FINE HAMPSHIRE RABBITS.

Here I am with my rabbits Hanging on my pole, The finest Hampshire rabbits That e'er crept from a hole.

HEARTHSTONE! HEARTHSTONE.

Hearthstones my pretty maids, I sell them four a penny, Hearthstones, come buy of me, As long as I have any.

DUST OH! DUST OH!

Dust or ash this chap calls out, With all his might and main, He's got a mighty cinder heap Somewhere near Gray's Inn Lane.

BUY A BONNET BOX OR CAP BOX

Bonnet boxes and cap boxes, The best that e'er was seen, They are so very nicely made, They'll keep your things so clean.

ALL A GROWING AND A BLOWING.

Now ladies here's roots for your gardens, Come buy some of me if you please, There's tulips, heart's-ease, and roses, Sweet Williams, and sweet peas.

ANY OLD POTS OR KETTLES TO MEND?

Any old pots or kettles, Or any old brass to mend Come my pretty maids all, To me your aid must lend.

ANY OLD CHAIRS TO MEND?

Any old chairs to mend? Any old chairs to seat? I'll make them quite as good as new, And make them look so neat.

THE LONDON STREET-MARKETS ON A SATURDAY NIGHT.

Mr. Henry Mayhew has painted a minute yet vivid picture of the London street markets, street sellers and purchasers which are to be seen in the greatest number on a Saturday night:--

"Here, and in the streets immediately adjoining, the working classes generally purchase their Sunday's dinner; and after pay-time on Saturday night, or early on Sunday morning, the crowd in the New-cut, and the Brill in particular, is almost impassable. Indeed, the scene in these parts has more the character of a fair than a market. There are hundreds of stalls, and every stall has its one or two lights; either it is illuminated by the intense white light of the new self-generating gas-lamp, or else it is brightened up by the red smoky flame of the old-fashioned grease-lamp. One man shows off his yellow haddock with a candle stuck in a bundle of firewood; his neighbour makes a candlestick of a huge turnip, and the tallow gutters over its sides; whilst the boy shouting "Eight a penny, stunning pears!" has rolled his dip in a thick coat of brown paper, that flares away with the candle. Some stalls are crimson with the fire shining through the holes beneath the baked chesnut stove; others have handsome octohedral lamps, while a few have a candle shining through a sieve; these, with the sparkling ground-glass globes of the tea-dealers' shops, and the butchers' gaslights streaming and fluttering in the wind, like flags of flame, pour forth such a flood of light, that at a distance the atmosphere immediately above the spot is as lurid as if the street were on fire.

The pavement and the road are crowded with purchasers and street-sellers. The housewife in her thick shawl, with the market-basket on her arm, walks slowly on, stopping now to look at the stall of caps, and now to cheapen a bunch of greens. Little boys, holding three or four onions in their hands, creep between the people, wriggling their way through every interstice, and asking for custom in whining tones, as if seeking charity. Then the tumult of the thousand different cries of the eager dealers, all shouting at the top of their voices, at one and the same time, is almost bewildering. "So-old again," roars one. "Chesnuts, all'ot, a penny a score," bawls another. "An 'aypenny a skin, blacking," squeaks a boy. "Buy, buy, buy, buy,--bu-u-uy!" cries the butcher. "Half-quire of paper for a penny," bellows the street-stationer. "An 'apenny a lot ing-uns." "Twopence a pound, grapes." "Three a penny! Yarmouth bloaters." "Who'll buy a bonnet for fourpence?" "Pick 'em out cheap here! three pair for a-halfpenny, bootlaces." "Now's your time! beautiful whelks, a penny a lot." "Here's ha'p'orths," shouts the perambulating confectioner. "Come and look at'em! here's toasters!" bellows one with a Yarmouth bloater stuck on a toasting fork. "Penny a lot, fine russets," calls the apple woman: and so the Babel goes on.

One man stands with his red-edge mats hanging over his back and chest, like a herald's coat; and the girl with her basket of walnuts lifts her brown-stained fingers to her mouth, as she screams, "Fine warnuts! sixteen a penny, fine war-r-nuts." A bootmaker, to "ensure custom," has illuminated his front-shop with a line of gas, and in its full glare stands a blind beggar, his eyes turned up so as to show only "the whites," and mumbling some begging rhymes, that are drowned in the shrill notes of the bamboo-flute-player next to him. The boy's sharp cry, the woman's cracked voice, the gruff, hoarse shout of the man, are all mingled together. Sometimes an Irishman is heard with his "fine ating apples," or else the jingling music of an unseen organ breaks out, as the trio of street singers rest between the verses.

Then the sights, as you elbow your way through the crowd are equally multifarious. Here is a stall glittering with new tin saucepans; there another, bright with its blue and yellow crockery, and sparkling with white glass. Now you come to a row of old shoes arranged along the pavement; now to a stand of gaudy tea-trays; then to a shop with red handkerchiefs and blue checked shirts, fluttering backwards and forwards, and a counter built up outside on the kerb, behind which are boys beseeching custom. At the door of a tea-shop, with its hundred white globes of light, stands a man delivering bills, thanking the public for past favours, and "defying competition." Here, along side the road, are some half-dozen headless tailors' dummies, dressed in Chesterfields and fustian jackets, each labelled:--"Look at the prices," or "Observe the quality." After this a butcher's shop, crimson and white with meat piled up to the first-floor, in front of all the butcher himself, in his blue coat, walks up and down, sharpening his knife on the steel that hangs to his waist. A little further on stands the clean family, begging; the father with his head down as if in shame, and a box of lucifers held forth in his hand--the boys in newly-washed pinafores, and the tidyly got up mother with a child at her breast. This stall is green and white with bunches of turnips--that red with apples, the next yellow with onions, and another purple with pickling cabbages. One minute you pass a man with an umbrella turned inside up and full of prints; the next, you hear one with a peepshow of Mazeppa, and Paul Jones the pirate, describing the pictures to the boys looking in at the little round windows. Then is heard the sharp snap of the purcussion-cap from the crowd of lads firing at the target for nuts; and the moment afterwards, you see either a black man half-clad in white, and shivering in the cold with tracts in his hand, or else you hear the sounds of music from "Frazier's Circus," on the other side of the road, and the man outside the door of the penny concert, beseeching you to "Be in time--be in time!" as Mr. Somebody is just about to sing his favourite song of the "Knife Grinder." Such, indeed, is the riot, the struggle, and the scramble for a living, that the confusion and the uproar of the New-cut on Saturday night have a bewildering and sad effect upon the thoughtful mind.

Each salesman tries his utmost to sell his wares, tempting the passers-by with his bargains. The boy with his stock of herbs offers "a double 'andful of fine parsley for a penny;" the man with the donkey-cart filled with turnips has three lads to shout for him to their utmost, with their "Ho! ho! hi-i-i! What do you think of us here? A penny a bunch--hurrah for free trade! _Here's_ your turnips!" Until it is seen and heard, we have no sense of the scramble that is going on throughout London for a living. The same scene takes place at the Brill--the same in Leather-lane--the same in Tottenham-court-road--the same in Whitecross-street; go to whatever corner of the metropolis you please, either on a Saturday night or a Sunday morning, and there is the same shouting and the same struggling to get the penny profit out of the poor man's Sunday's dinner.

Since the above description was written, the New Cut has lost much of its noisy and brilliant glory. In consequence of a New Police regulation, "stands" or "pitches" have been forbidden, and each coster, on a market night, is now obliged, under pain of the lock-up house, to carry his tray, or keep moving with his barrow. The gay stalls have been replaced by deal boards, some sodden with wet fish, others stained purple with blackberries, or brown with walnut peel; and the bright lamps are almost totally superseded by the dim, guttering candle. Even if the pole under the tray or "shallow" is seen resting on the ground, the policeman on duty is obliged to interfere.

The mob of purchasers has diminished one-half; and instead of the road being filled with customers and trucks, the pavement and kerbstones are scarcely crowded.

THE SUNDAY MORNING MARKETS.