Where hawkers and pedlers in scores you might see:
The task would be endless to tell of the ware
They had put up for sale at Haltwhistle Fair.
The spade and the shuttle neglected they lay,
The tailor his trimmings and cloth put away,
The smith threw his hammer down—You may lie there,
For this day I’ll make one at Haltwhistle Fair.
The man in the barn he threw down his flail,
And came to this place for a drink of good ale;
The coal-pits were empty, no person was there,