The last punnet

of ripe red cherries on the stall,

and in fact, the last in their orchard.

All the rest are black cherries from now on.

Hone's Everyday Book records that cherries were brought up from Kent 

and sold by the London Barrow Woman.

This is cherry season, but it is not to me as cherry seasons were. 

I like a great deal that is, but I have an affection for what was. 

By-gone days seem to have been more fair than these; 

and I cannot help trying to

"catch the manners dying as they fall."

I have lived through the extremity of one age, 

into the beginning of another, and I believe better;

yet the former has been too much detracted; 

everything new is not, therefore, good;

nor was everything old, bad.

When I was a boy, I speak of just after the French revolution broke out, 

my admiration and taste were pure and natural, 

and one of my favourite at all times, and in cherry time especially, 

was the London Barrow Woman.

There are no barrow women now.

They have quite "gone out", or, rather,

they have been "put down",

and by many they are not even missed.

Look around; there is not one to be seen.

Round and sound.

Tuppence a pound.

Cherries rare ripe cherries!

Cherries a ha'penny a stick.

Come and pick! come and pick!

Cherries as big as plums.

Who comes, who comes.