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A History of the Cries of London by Hindley

Illustration THE JOLLY TINKER


[Illustration: THE JOLLY TINKER.]

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._

[Illustration: FINE CHINA ORANGES.]

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

[Illustration: FINE RIPE ORANGES]

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_.


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