My Southern Home: Or, the South and Its People

by William Wells Brown

But the costermongers, or street-venders, are the men of music. “Here’s yer nice vegables—green corn, butter beans, taters, Irish taters, new, jess bin digged; come an’ get ’em while dey is fresh. Now’s yer time; squash, Calafony quash, bess in de worl’; come an’ git ’em now; it’ll be Sunday termorrer, an’ I’ll be gone to church. Big fat Mexican peas, marrer fat squash, Protestant squash, good Catholic vegables of all kinds.”

Now’s yer time to git snap-beans,
Okra, tomatoes, an’ taters gwine by;
Don’t be foolish virgins;
Hab de dinner ready
When de master he comes home,
Snap-beans gwine by.

Just then the vender broke forth in a most musical voice:

Oh! Hannah, boil dat cabbage down,
Hannah, boil ’em down,
And turn dem buckwheats round and round,
Hannah, boil ’em down.
It’s almost time to blow de horn,
Hannah, boil ’em down,
To call de boys dat hoe de corn,
Hannah, boil ’em down.

Hannah, boll ’em down,
De cabbage just pulled out de ground,
Boil ’em in de pot,
And make him smoking hot.

Some like de cabbage made in krout,
Hannah, boil ’em down,
Dey eat so much dey get de gout,
Hannah, boil ’em down,
Dey chops ’em up and let dem spoil,
Hannah, boil ’em down;
I’d rather hab my cabbage boiled,
Hannah, boil ’em down.

Some say dat possum’s in de pan,
Hannah, boil ’em down,
Am de sweetest meat in all de land,
Hannah, boil ’em down;
But dar is dat ole cabbage head,
Hannah, boil ’em down,
I’ll prize it, children, till I’s dead,
Hannah, boil ’em down.

This song, given in his inimitable manner, drew the women to the windows, and the crowd around the vegetable man in the street, and he soon disposed of the contents of his cart. Other venders who “toted” their commodities about in baskets on their heads, took advantage of the musical man’s company to sell their own goods. A woman with some really fine strawberries, put forth her claims in a very interesting song; the interest, however, centered more upon the manner than the matter:—

“I live fore miles out of town,
I am gwine to glory.
My strawberries are sweet an’ soun’,
I am gwine to glory.
I fotch ’em fore miles on my head,
I am gwine to glory.
My chile is sick, an’ husban’ dead,
I am gwine to glory.
Now’s de time to get ’em cheap,
I am gwine to glory.
Eat ’em wid yer bread an’ meat,
I am gwine to glory.
Come sinner get down on your knees,
I am gwine to glory.
Eat dees strawberries when you please,
I am gwine to glory.”

Upon the whole, the colored man of Virginia is a very favorable physical specimen of his race; and he has peculiarly fine, urbane manners. A stranger judging from the surface of life here, would undoubtedly say that that they were a happy, well-to-do people. Perhaps, also, he might say: “Ah, I see. The negro is the same everywhere—a hewer of wood, a peddler of vegetables, a wearer of the waiter’s white apron. Freedom has not altered his status.”