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