How F. Wilson Meets His Customers’ Views.

My readers may credit the words of my muse.
When telling how Wilson meets Customers’ Views;
Wilson studies a straightforward system of trade,
Whereby to elicit encouraging aid.
The pure farm-house Milk he daily brings out,
Is such as we have no reason to doubt;
Encouraged in business his course he pursues,
And fails not in meeting his Customers’ Views.
You’ll not have occasion to doubt what I say,
When testing his Pure Milk day after day;
For cheapness and quality you’ll find him in trade,
As you did when he first asked the public for aid.
His farm-house Milk and Eggs, which thoroughly please,
Are positive proofs of assertions like these;
’Tis certain that better can ne’er be supplied,
He trusts that in this you’ll all coincide.
The highest of interest his Milk doth possess,
Thus boldly we state, for we cannot state less;
F. Wilson supplies what all purchasers choose,
And thus he is meeting his Customers’ Views.

———

Terms Cash.

Customers can have their Milk left in cans any time after 5 a.m.
Note the address ☞ * * *
All complaints to be addressed to Mr. F. Wilson.

Tiddy Diddy Doll-loll, Loll, Loll.

This celebrated vendor of gingerbread, from his eccentricity of character, and extensive dealing in his particular way, was always hailed as the King of itinerant tradesmen. He was a constant attendant in the crowd at all metropolitan fairs, mob meetings, Lord Mayor’s shows, public executions, and all other holiday and festive gatherings! In his person he was tall, well made, and his features handsome. He affected to dress like a person of rank; white and gold lace suit of clothes, lace ruffled shirt, laced hat and feather, white stockings, with the addition of a white apron. Among his harangues to gain customers, take the following piece as a fair sample of the whole:—

“Mary, Mary, where are you now, Mary? I live, when at home, at the second house in Little diddy-ball-street, two steps under ground, with a wiscum, riscum, and a why-not. Walk in, ladies and gentlemen; my shop is on the second-floor backwards, with a brass knocker on the door, and steel steps before it. Here is your nice gingerbread, it will melt in your mouth like a red-hot brickbat, and rumble in your inside like Punch and his wheelbarrow.” He always finished his address by singing this fag end of some popular ballad:—