TIM TURPIN. A PATHETIC BALLAD. TIM TURPIN he was gravel blind, So, like a Christmas pedagogue, Poor Tim was forced to do, Look out for pupils, for he had A vacancy for two. There's some have specs to help their sight Of objects dim and small; But Tim had specks within his eyes, And could not see at all. Now Tim he wooed a servant maid, And took her to his arms; By day she led him up and down A happy wife, although she led But just when Tim had lived a month In honey with his wife, A surgeon oped his Milton eyes, But when his eyes were opened thus, Her face was bad, her figure worse, Now Tim he was a feeling man: So, with a cudgel in his hand, It was not light or slim, — He knocked at his wife's head until And when the corpse was stiff and cold, He took his slaughtered spouse, And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house. But, like a wicked murderer, He lived in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut His throat from ear to ear. The neighbors fetched a doctor in: Said he, "This wound I dread Can hardly be sewed up, Is hanging on a thread." his life But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope,Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope. Ah! when he hid his bloody work, But when the parish dustman came, His rubbish to withdraw, He found more dust within the heap Than he contracted for ! A dozen men to try the fact, But though they all were jurors, yet Said Tim unto those jurymen, You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself, at once, The author of her death. And, O, when I reflect upon Then turning round his head again A great judge, and a little judge, The great judge took his judgment-cap, And put it on his head, And sentenced Tim by law to hang Till he was three times dead. So he was tried, and he was hung On Horsham-drop, and none can say JACK HALL.. 'Tis very hard when men forsake But certain rogues will come and break 'Tis hard we can't give up our breath, And to the earth our earth bequeath, Without Death Fetches after death, Who thus exhume us; And snatch us from our homes beneath, The tender lover comes to rear The mournful urn, and shed his tear, Her glorious dust, he cries, is here! Alack! alack! The while his Sacharissa dear Is in a sack! 'Tis hard one cannot lie amid The mould, beneath a coffin-lid, But thus the Faculty will bid Their rogues break through it! If they don't want us there, why did They send us to it? |