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