Oh! dearly do I love "Old Cries" That touch my heart and bid me look On "Bough-pots" pluck'd 'neath summer skies, And "Watercresses" from the brook. It may be vain, it may be weak, To list when common voices speak; But rivers, with their broad, deep course, Pour from a mean and unmark'd source: And so my warmest tide of soul From strange, unheeded springs will roll. "Old Cries," "Old Cries"—there is not one But hath a mystic tissue spun Around it, flinging on the ear A magic mantle rich and dear, From "Hautboys," pottled in the sun, To the loud wish that cometh when The tune of midnight waits is done With "A merry Christmas, gentlemen, And a happy new year!"
The clear, spring dawn is breaking, and there cometh with the ray, The stripling boy with "shining face," and dame in "hodden grey:" Rude melody is breathed by all—young—old—the strong, and weak; From manhood with its burly tone, and age with treble squeak. Forth come the little busy "Jacks," and forth come little "Gills," As thick and quick as working ants about their summer hills; With baskets of all shapes and makes, of every size and sort; Away they trudge, with eager step, through alley, street, and court. A spicy freight they bear along, and earnest is their care, To guard it like a tender thing from morning's nipping air; And though our rest be broken by their voices shrill and clear, There's something in the well-known "cry" we dearly love to hear. 'Tis old, familiar music, when "the old woman runs" With "One a penny, two a penny, Hot Cross Buns!" Full many a cake of dainty make has gain'd a good renown, We all have lauded "gingerbread" and "parliament" done brown; But when did luscious "Banburies," or even "Sally Lunns," E'er yield such merry chorus theme as "One a penny buns!" The pomp of palate that may be like old Vitellius fed, Can never feast as mine did on the sweet and fragrant bread; When quick impatience could not wait to share the early meal, But eyed the pile of "Hot Cross Buns," and dared to snatch and steal. Oh, the soul must be uncouth as a Vandal's, Goth's, or Hun's, That loveth not the melody of "One a penny buns!"
There was a man in olden time, And a troubadour was he; Whose passing chant and lilting rhyme Had mighty charms for me.
My eyes grew big with a sparkling stare, And my heart began to swell, When I heard his loud song filling the air About "Young lambs to sell!"
His flocks were white as the falling snow, With collars of shining gold; And I chose from the pretty ones "all of a row," With a joy that was untold. Oh, why did the gold become less bright, Why did the soft fleece lose its white, And why did the child grow old?
'Twas a blithe, bold song the old man sung; The words came fast, and the echoes rung, Merry and free as a "marriage bell;" And a right good troubadour was he, For the hive never swarm'd to the chinking key, As the wee things did when they gather'd in glee To his eloquent cry—"Young lambs to sell!"
Ah, well-a-day! it hath pass'd away, With my holiday pence and my holiday play— I wonder if I could listen again, As I listen'd then to that old man's strain.
And there was "a cry," in the days gone by, That ever came when my pillow was nigh; When, tired and spent, I was passively led By a mother's hand to my own sweet bed— My lids grew heavy, my glance was dim, As I yawn'd in the midst of a cradle hymn— When the watchman's echo lull'd me quite, With "Past ten o'clock, and a starlight night!"
Well I remember the hideous dream, When I struggled in terror, and strove to scream, As I took a wild leap o'er the precipice steep, And convulsively flung off the incubus sleep. How I loved to behold the moonshine cold Illume each well-known curtain fold; And how I was soothed by the watchman's warning, Of "Past three o'clock, and a moonlight morning!"
Oh, there was music in this "old cry," Whose deep, rough tones will never die; No rare serenade will put to flight The chant that proclaim'd a "stormy night."
The "watchmen of the city" are gone, The church-bell speaketh, but speaketh alone; We hear no voice at the wintry dawning, With "Past five o'clock, and a cloudy morning!" Ah, well-a-day! it hath pass'd away, But I sadly miss the cry That told in the night when the stars were bright, Or the rain-cloud veil'd the sky. Watchmen, watchmen, ye are among The bygone things that will haunt me long.
"Three bunches a penny, primroses!" Oh, dear is the greeting of Spring; When she offers her dew-spangled posies, The fairest Creation can bring.
"Three bunches a penny, primroses!" The echo resounds in the mart; And the simple "cry" often uncloses The worldly bars grating man's heart.
We reflect, we contrive, and we reckon How best we can gather up wealth; We go where bright finger-posts beckon, Till we wander from Nature and Health.
But the "old cry" shall burst on our scheming, The song of "Primroses" shall flow, And "Three bunches a penny" set dreaming Of all that we loved long ago.
It brings visions of meadow and mountain, Of valley, and streamlet, and hill, When Life's ocean but play'd in a fountain— Ah, would that it sparkled so still!
It conjures back shadowless hours, When we threaded the wild, forest ways; When our own hand went seeking the flowers, And our own lips were shouting their praise.
The perfume and tint of the blossom Are as fresh in vale, dingle, and glen; But say, is the pulse of our bosom As warm and as bounding as then?
"Three bunches a penny, primroses!" "Three bunches a penny,—come, buy!" A blessing on all the spring posies, And good-will to the poor ones who cry.
"Lavender, Sweet Lavender! With "Cherry Ripe!" is coming; While the droning beetles whirr, And merry bees are humming.
"Lavender, sweet Lavender! Oh, pleasant is the crying; While the rose-leaves scarcely stir, And downy moths are flying.
"Oh, dearly do I love "Old Cries," Your "Lilies all a-blowing!" Your blossoms blue still wet with dew, "Sweet Violets all a-growing!"
Oh, happy were the days, methinks, In truth, the best of any; When "Periwinkles, winkle, winks!" Allured my last lone penny.
Oh, what had I to do with cares That bring the frown and furrow, When "Walnuts" and "Fine mellow pears" Beat Catalani thorough!
Full dearly do I love "Old Cries," And always turn to hear them; And though they cause me some few sighs, Those sighs do but endear them.
My heart is like the fair sea-shell, There's music ever in it; Though bleak the shore where it may dwell, Some power still lives to win it.
When music fills the shell no more, "Twill be all crush'd and scatter'd; And when this heart's wild tone is o'er, "Twill be all cold and shatter'd.
Oh, vain will be the hope to break Its last and dreamless slumbers; When "Old Cries" come, and fail to wake Its deep and fairy numbers!
