| Padraic Colum (1881–1972). Anthology of Irish Verse. 1922. |
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| 7. Market Women’s Cries |
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| By Jonathan Swift |
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APPLES
COME buy my fine wares, | |
| Plums, apples and pears. | |
| A hundred a penny, | |
| In conscience too many: | |
| Come, will you have any? | 5 |
| My children are seven, | |
| I wish them in Heaven; | |
| My husband ’s a sot, | |
| With his pipe and his pot, | |
| Not a farthen will gain them, | 10 |
| And I must maintain them. | |
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ONIONS
Come, follow me by the smell, | |
| Here are delicate onions to sell; | |
| I promise to use you well. | |
| They make the blood warmer, | 15 |
| You’ll feed like a farmer; | |
| For this is every cook’s opinion, | |
| No savoury dish without an onion; | |
| But, lest your kissing should be spoiled, | |
| Your onions must be thoroughly boiled: | 20 |
| Or else you may spare | |
| Your mistress a share, | |
| The secret will never be known: | |
| She cannot discover | |
| The breath of her lover, | 25 |
| But think it as sweet as her own. | |
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HERRINGS
Be not sparing, | |
| Leave off swearing. | |
| Buy my herring | |
| Fresh from Malahide, | 30 |
| Better never was tried. | |
| Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, | |
| Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. | |
| Come, sixpence a dozen, to get me some bread, | |
| Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead. | 35 |
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