OLD CRIES.
"Old Cries," "Old Cries"—there is not one
But hath a mystic tissue spun
Around it, flinging on the ear
A magic mantle rich and dear,
From "Hautboys," pottled in the sun,
To the loud wish that cometh when
The tune of midnight waits is done
With "A merry Christmas, gentlemen,
And a happy new year!"
But hath a mystic tissue spun
Around it, flinging on the ear
A magic mantle rich and dear,
From "Hautboys," pottled in the sun,
To the loud wish that cometh when
The tune of midnight waits is done
With "A merry Christmas, gentlemen,
And a happy new year!"
The clear, spring dawn is breaking, and there cometh with the ray,
The stripling boy with "shining face," and dame in "hodden grey:"
Rude melody is breathed by all—young—old—the strong, and weak;
From manhood with its burly tone, and age with treble squeak.
Forth come the little busy "Jacks," and forth come little "Gills,"
As thick and quick as working ants about their summer hills;
With baskets of all shapes and makes, of every size and sort;
Away they trudge, with eager step, through alley, street, and court.
A spicy freight they bear along, and earnest is their care,
To guard it like a tender thing from morning's nipping air;
And though our rest be broken by their voices shrill and clear,
There's something in the well-known "cry" we dearly love to hear.
'Tis old, familiar music, when "the old woman runs"
With "One a penny, two a penny, Hot Cross Buns!"
Full many a cake of dainty make has gain'd a good renown,
We all have lauded "gingerbread" and "parliament" done brown;
But when did luscious "Banburies," or even "Sally Lunns,"
E'er yield such merry chorus theme as "One a penny buns!"
The pomp of palate that may be like old Vitellius fed,
Can never feast as mine did on the sweet and fragrant bread;
When quick impatience could not wait to share the early meal,
But eyed the pile of "Hot Cross Buns," and dared to snatch and steal.
Oh, the soul must be uncouth as a Vandal's, Goth's, or Hun's,
That loveth not the melody of "One a penny buns!"
The stripling boy with "shining face," and dame in "hodden grey:"
Rude melody is breathed by all—young—old—the strong, and weak;
From manhood with its burly tone, and age with treble squeak.
Forth come the little busy "Jacks," and forth come little "Gills,"
As thick and quick as working ants about their summer hills;
With baskets of all shapes and makes, of every size and sort;
Away they trudge, with eager step, through alley, street, and court.
A spicy freight they bear along, and earnest is their care,
To guard it like a tender thing from morning's nipping air;
And though our rest be broken by their voices shrill and clear,
There's something in the well-known "cry" we dearly love to hear.
'Tis old, familiar music, when "the old woman runs"
With "One a penny, two a penny, Hot Cross Buns!"
Full many a cake of dainty make has gain'd a good renown,
We all have lauded "gingerbread" and "parliament" done brown;
But when did luscious "Banburies," or even "Sally Lunns,"
E'er yield such merry chorus theme as "One a penny buns!"
The pomp of palate that may be like old Vitellius fed,
Can never feast as mine did on the sweet and fragrant bread;
When quick impatience could not wait to share the early meal,
But eyed the pile of "Hot Cross Buns," and dared to snatch and steal.
Oh, the soul must be uncouth as a Vandal's, Goth's, or Hun's,
That loveth not the melody of "One a penny buns!"
266
