The Streets are pav'd, 'lis true, but all the stones
Are set the wrong way-up, in shape of cones,
And Strangers limp along the best pav'd street,
As if parch'd peas were strew'd beneath their feet;
Whilst custom makes the Natives scarcely feel
Sharp pointed pebbles[1] preſs the toe or heel.
Of Annual Fa1rs, indeed, we have but few,
Yet rest well satisfy'd with only two;[2]
But those who favourite dainties often seek,
Will find there are, three Marxets every week;
And Epicureans, then, may have their wish,
And tho' an inland place, find good fresh fish;
For many schemes suggested, have been tried,
To have our markets constantly supplied
With ev'ry thing that's good, and cheap in reason,
Fruit, Fish or Fowl, and rarities in season:[3]
And as for Meat, each Butcher in his station,
Will safely swear, 'No better's in the Nation.'
- ↑ The following authentic anecdote will shew how far custom reconciles people, to what others imagine inconveniencies: An Inhabitant of Birmingham, having been a journey of pleasure up to London, was asked, on his return, how he liked the place? He said, he was much pleased with everything but the Pavement, for the stones were all so Smooth there was no foot-hold.
- ↑ The annual Fairs are held the Thursday in Whitsuntide week and the two following days; the second on Michaelmas day, unleſs it falls on a Sunday, in which case it is held on the Monday and two following days. The latter is a very great Onion Fair; and in 1778, the toll was paid for 84 Waggon loads.
- ↑ Our Markets every week are well supplied: fruit of all kinds, and excellent vegetables, are brought from the adjacent counties. Fine Severn salmon from the West, and all kind of fish from E, N. & S. coasts, &c.
