Spring-water Cresses

When hoary frost hung on each thorn, Ere night had well withdrawn her gloom, Poor Phoebe went one wint'ry morn, From Colnbrook-down to Langly-broom: When from the brake, or from the rill, Half clad, and with neglected tresses, Her rushy basket try'd to fill, With fresh and green SPRING-WATER CRESSES.

Yet many a chearful strain she'd sing, While wading thro' the chilling stream; Her thoughtless spirits were a wing, With love, or with some jocund theme; Then with her humble merchandize, In hopes to conquer her distresses; Away to London next she hies, And cries her YOUNG SPRING-WATER CRESSES.

Thro' many an alley, lane, or street, Ere luxury has left her bed; You're sure poor Phoebe next to meet, Trying to get her daily bread: The wind and rain she oft defies, When e'er her purse some mite possesses; With chearful voice she daily cries, Come buy my YOUNG SPRING-WATER CRESSES.