English poem
Herrings
Be not sparing, Leave off swearing. Buy my herring Fresh from Malahide, Better never was tried. Come, eat them with pure fresh butter and mustard, Their bellies are soft, and as white as a custard. Come, sixpence a-dozen, to get me some bread, Or, like my own herrings, I soon shall be dead.
More by Jonathan Swift
- Fontinella[1] To Florinda
- Gentle Echo On Woman, A
- George-Nim-Dan-Dean'S Answer
- Helter Skelter; Or, The Hue And Cry After The Attorneys
- Horace, Book I, Ep. V
- Horace, Book I, Ode Xiv Paraphrased And Inscribed To Ireland
- Horace, Book II, Ode I, Paraphrased; Addressed To Richard Steele, Esq.
- Horace, Book Iii, Ode Ii