  Formerly on the Sandhill, and afterwards on the Quay, near the Bridge, were people (chiefly women) who, in the open street, on market days, performed the office of Barber. On each market day, Sir, the folks to the Quay, Sir, Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn. And round the small grate, Sir, in crowds they all wait, Sir, To get themselves shav’d in a rotative turn; Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir, Debate—till at length they quite heated have grown; May nothing escape, Sir, until Madame Scrape, Sir, Cries, “Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?” A medley the place is, of those that sell laces, With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets; Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting, And ask one another how trade with them sets: Join’d in with Tom Hoggars and little Bob Nackers, Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills; And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir, That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills. There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats, Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best: There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded, If they’re not shav’d first while their keel’s at the Fest; With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost, Thro’ off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair; While others stand looking, and think it provoking, But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare. When under the chin, Sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir, Their old quid they’ll pop in the pea-jacket cuff; And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting, And looking around with an air fierce and bluff: Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir, And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise; But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir, With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes. No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir, Then painful distortions take place on the brow; But if they complain, Sir, they’ll find it in vain, Sir, She’ll tell them there’s nought but what Patience can do; And as she scrapes round ’em, if she by chance wound ’em, They’ll cry out as tho’ she’d bereav’d them of life, “’Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood’s coming, “I’d rather been shav’d with an au’d gully knife!” For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir, And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool; Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir: But she gives them for answer, “Sit still you pist fool!” For all their repining, their twisting and twining, She forward proceeds till she’s mown off the hair; When finish’d, cries, “There Sir;” then straight from the chair, Sir, They’ll jump, crying, “Daresay you’ve scrap’d the bone bare!” |
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