_An Ancient Song of Bartholomew Fair._
In fifty-five, may I never thrive,
If I tell you any more than is true,
To London che came, hearing of the fame
Of a Fair they call Bartholomew.
In houses of boards, men walk upon cords,
As easie as squirrels crack filberds;
But the cut-purses they do lite, and rub away,
But those we suppose to be ill birds.
For a penny you may zee a fine puppet play,
And for two-pence a rare piece of art;
And a penny a cann, I dare swear a man,
May put zix of ’em into a quart.
Their zights are so rich, is able to bewitch
The heart of a very fine man-a;
Here’s patient Grizel here, and Fair Rosamond there,
And the history of Susanna.
At Pye-corner end, mark well, my good friend,
’Tis a very fine dirty place;
Where there’s more arrows and bows, the Lord above knows,
Than was handl’d at Chivy Chase.
Then at Smithfield Bars, betwixt the ground and the stars,
There’s a place they call Shoemaker Row,
Where that you may buy shoes every day,
Or go barefoot all the year I tro’.[288]