The Old Pudding-pie Woman set forth in her colours, etc.  
Of all the rare and various London cries,  
There's none that doth excel Hot Pudding-Pyes:  
Each one that hears it, being bit with hunger,  
Would wish himself to be a Pudding Monger;  
For many likes such Victuals for the nonce,  
Because in Pudding-Pyes there is no bones.  
To a rare new Tune much in use, or, There was an Old Wife.  
 
 

There was a Old wife  
and she sold Pudding-pyes,  
She went to the Mill  
and the dust blew into her eyes:  
She has Hot Puddings  
and Cold Puddings to sell,  
Where ever she goes  
you may follow her by the smell.   

Betimes in the morning  
out of her bed she will pack,  
And give you all warning  
with a loud thundering crack:  
Then coughing and spitting,  
& Rubbing, & Scrubbing her thighs,  
She hangs on her clothes  
and away to sell Pudding-pyes.   

She calls up her Neighbours  
for to go and fuddle a Pot,  
Because to go fasting  
O she likes it not;  
Her Bub she doth tipp●e  
and then having cleared her eyes  
She goes to the Oven  
to fetch her Pudding-pyes.   

O Baker quoth she  
I prithee do not me co●en,  
I am an Old wife  
tell fifteen to the dozen;  
For by that means  
my profit doth fairly rise;  
Or else I must never  
more cry Pudding-pyes.   
 

AT every Corner  
and in every street,  
This Pudding-pye-woman  
be sure you oft shall meet;  
With Basket on head  
and hand on her Butock she cries,  
Come here all away  
that will buy Hot Pudding-pyes.   

She hath a long Nose  
and often the same doth drop,  
A piece of Hot Pudding  
would make a dainty Sop,  
Her Béetle-brow forehead  
hangs quite over her eyes,  
She scarcely can see  
to sell her Pudding-pyes,   

Her hands she doth wash  
but twice three times in a year,  
The print of her fingers  
doth fair on her Puddings appear  
She's two yards about,  
which you I say is a pretty size,  
For an Old wife  
that doth sell Hot Pudding-pyes.   

In Winter you may  
behold her dragled Tail,  
And lagging she goes  
along just like a Snail,  
All sprinkled with mire  
a handful about her thighs,  
You that have good stomaches  
come buy her Pudding-pyes.   

At Noon and at Night  
this Firkin of stuff both wag,  
Some money to take  
to put in her greasy bag:  
I wish she would make me  
her Heir when ever she dies,  
Then I shall have money  
for all her Pudding-pyes.   

Her Puddings are fat,  
in Summer they use to fry  
With heat of the Sun,  
or else she hath told a lie:  
But what she puts in them  
I swear I cannot devise,  
Then buy and you'll try  
how you like her Pudding-pyes.   

She had a young Daughter  
that takes after her Mother,  
And will be as like her  
as one Pea's like another;  
If any young Man have  
a mind to such a Rare prize,  
He shall have her Daughter  
and all her Pudding-pyes.   

And thus you may see  
how I this Woman describe,  
'Tis nothing to me  
I'm sure she'll give me no Bribe,  
But I am content  
since that I have told no lies,  
Then farewell to those  
that do cry Hot Pudding-pyes.    

London, Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, and J. Clark.