PART I.
On either side of Market-street
Small stalls of vegetables meet
Domestic eyes; and voices sweet
And voices hoarse their hearing greet
With cries of “Buy my fine shalots!”
And up and down the million goes;
Gazing where, in varied rows,
Green stuff lies, and each nose knows
The odour of shalots.
Widows cheapen, urchins chatter,
Little vagrants make much clatter;
Vulgar boys cry, “Who’s your hatter?”
And this time, the night of Satur-
Day’s the joy of all the sots.
Bright blue eyes, lips like the cherry,
Rosy cheeks, that ringlets bury,
Had an Irish girl, from Derry,
A girl who sold shalots!
To the market, peas and beans
Heavy lumbering machines
Bring thrice a week, also greens;
And ’tis prime fun to watch the scenes
At the biddings for the lots.
But who hath seen her buy her stock
Of onions, or white-headed broc-
Oli, before four of the clock,
That girl who sells shalots?
Only peelers, walking early
(One there is a great, big, burly
Fellow, who is always surly,
And wouldn’t even let a cur lie
Down in shelter’d corner spots);
Or, by the dawn, some loose young city
Clerk, home reeling, hears the ditty
She oft sings—says “’Tis that pretty
Girl who sells shalots!”
THE ONION GIRL
PART II.
(A change comes o’er the spirit of the O.G.)
Now she flaunts by night or day,
In gorgeous dress and ribbons gay:
Conscience often whispers “nay!”
But love of finery cries “yea.”
Calling conscience “horrid rot!”
She knows not what the end may be,
And so she hath a “jolly spree,”
But little other care hath she—
That girl who sold shalot!
And now, before a mirror clear,
She learns each wily glance and leer;
Then puts an earring in each ear,
And donning some fast, flashy gear,
Starts for some den that London blots.
There the vicious eddy whirls;
And there is vice in gold and pearls;
And there are jewelled, wretched girls,
Who’d scorn to sell shalots!