Smithfield Wife.

Evans Printer, Long-lane, London.

SAY now what's the job that assembles this
mob,

What cattle is here to dispose of;

Some grieve and look cunning, while others are
running,

"Master, vy none as I knows of;

Till a woman cries hold, here's a wife to be sold

Nay, no laughing, believe I don't cram, sir;

For that we this flock hold—the husband's a
cuckold,

So he sells her just fronting the Ram, sir.

The wife now we trace, with a flush in her face
Well painted by Booth's cordial stingo,

Some tears appear falling, the husband loud
bawling,

Now praises her worth in strong lingo;

For a better depend, now I speak as a friend!

You may search round from May to October

She'll work without beating, with moderate
treating,

If so be, you can keep her but sober!

Should you wish to know why I part with her so
And the whole of my business resign,

You must understand, sir, it seem'd not to
answer,

So I just mean to try a new line.

Be it then understood, that the tenement's
good,

And for business, mayhap, may take all in;

Who'it might suit me, it will prosper dy'see
With a man that's a hand at his calling.

Keep from her the glass, she will prove a good
lass,

And as for her virtue you know well,

The best of us stumble, so keep her but humble
And depend on't, she surely will go well;

Now a song-bawler cried, here's a pound, she's
my bride,

But a sweep prov'd his offer a wrong key;

Gave more by five shillings;—the husband was
willing,

And the fair one rode off on a donkey.