The Old Pudding-pye Woman ſet forth in her colours, &c.
Of all the rare and various London cryes,
There's none that doth excel Hot Pudding-Pyes:
Each one that hears it, being bit with hunger,
Would wiſh himſelf to be a Pudding Monger;
For many likes ſuch Victuals for the nones,
Becauſe in Pudding-Pyes there is no bones.
To a rare new Tune much in uſe, or There was an Old Wife.
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There was an Old wife
and ſhe ſold Pudding-pyes,
She went to the Mill
and the duſt blew into her eyes:
She has Hot Puddings
and Cold Puddings to ſell,
Where ever ſhe goes
you may follow her by the ſmell.
Betimes in the morning
out of her bed ſhe will pack,
And give you all warning
with a loud thundering crack:
Then coughing and ſpitting,
⁊ Rubbing, ⁊ Scrubbing her thighs,
She hangs on her Cloaths
and away to ſell Pudding-pyes.
She calls up her Neighboꝛs
foꝛ to go and fuddle a Pot,
Becauſe to go falling
O ſhe likes it not;
Her Bub ſhe doth tipple
and then having cleared her eyes
She goes to the Oven
to fetch her Pudding-pyes.
O Baker quoth ſhe
I pꝛethy do not me cozen,
I am an Old wife
tell fifteen to the dozen;
Foꝛ by that means
my pꝛofit doth fairly riſe,
Oꝛ elſe I muſt never
moꝛe cry Pudding-pyes.
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AT every Coꝛner
and in every ſtreet,
This Pudding-pye-woman
be ſure you oft ſhall meet;
With Basket on head
and hand on her Butock ſhe cryes,
Come here all away
that will buy Hot Pudding-pyes.
She hath a long Noſe
and often the ſame doth dꝛop,
A piece of Hot Pudding
would make a dainty Sop,
Her Beetle-bꝛow foꝛehead
hangs quite over her eyes,
She ſcarcely can ſee
to ſell her Pudding-pyes.
Her hands ſhe doth waſh
but twice thꝛee times in a year,
The pꝛint of her fingers
doth fair on her Puddings appear
She's two yards about,
which you I ſay is a pꝛetty ſize,
Foꝛ an Old wife
that doth ſell Hot Pudding-pyes.
In Winter you may
behold her dꝛaggled Tail,
And lagging ſhe goes
along juſt like a Snail,
All ſpꝛinkled with mire
a handful about her thighs,
You that have good ſtomachs
come buy her Pudding-pyes.
At Noon at at Night
this Firkin of ſtuff doth wag,
Some money to take
to put in her greaſie bag:
I wiſh ſhe would make me
her Heir when ever ſhe dyes,
Then I ſhall have money
foꝛ all her Pudding-pyes.
Her Puddings are fat,
in summer they uſe to fry
With heat of the Sun,
oꝛ elſe ſhe hath told a lye:
But what ſhe puts in them
I ſwear I cannot devize,
Then buy and you'l try
how you like her Pudding-pyes.
She had a young Daughter
that takes after her Mother,
And will be as like her
as one Pea's like another;
If any young Man have
a mind to ſuch a Rare pꝛize,
He ſhall have her Daughter
and all her Pudding-pyes.
And thus you may ſee
how I this Woman deſcribe.
'Tis nothing to me
I'm ſure ſhe'l give me no Bꝛibe,
But I am content
ſince that I have told no lyes,
Then farewel to thoſe
that do cry Hot Pudding-pyes.
London, Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clark.
