Bartleme Fair

WHILE gentlefolks strut in their silver and sattins,
We poor folks are tramping in straw hats and pattens,
As merrily Old English ballads can sing—o,
As they at their opperores outlandish ling—o;
Calling out, bravo, encoro, and caro,
Tho'f I will sing nothing but Bartleme Fair—o.

Here first of all, crowds against other crowds driving,
Like wind and tide meeting, each contrary striving;
Here's fiddling and fluting, and shouting and shrieking,
Fifes, trumpets, drums, bag-pipes, and barrow-girls squeaking.
My rare round and sound, here's choice of fine ware—o,
Tho' all is not sound sold at Barleme Fair—o.

Here are drolls, hornpipe dancing, and shewing of postures;
Plum-porridge, black-puddings, and op'ning of oysters;
The tap-house guests swearing, and gall'ry folks squawling,
With salt-boxes, solos, and mouth-pieces bawling;
Pimps, pick-pockets, strollers, fat landladies, sailors,
Bawds, baileys, jilts, jockies, thieves, tumblers, and taylors.

Here's Punch's whole play of the gunpowder-plot, Sir,
Wild beasts all alive, and pease-porridge hot, Sir:
Fine sausages fry'd, and the Black on the wire;
The whole court of France, and nice pig at the fire.
The ups-and-downs, who'll take a seat in the chair—o,
There are more ups and downs that at Bartleme Fair-o.

Here's Whittington's cat, and the tall dromedary,
The chaise without horses, and Queen of Hungary;
The merry-go-rounds, come who rides, come who rides;
Wine, beer, ale, and cakes, fire-eating besides;
The fam'd learned dog that can tell all his letters,
And some men, as scholars, are not much his betters.

This world's a wide fair, where we ramble 'mong gay things;
Our passions, like children, are tempted by play-things;
By sound and by shew, by trash and by trumpery,
The fal-lals of fashion, and Frenchify'd frumpery.
Life is but a droll, rather wretched than rare—o,
And thus ends the ballad of Bartleme Fair—o.