But just when Tim had lived a month

In honey with his wife,
A surgeon oped his Milton eyes,

Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were opened thus,

He wished them dark again ; For when he looked upon his wife,

He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse,

He could n't bear to eat; For she was anything but like

A Grace before his meat.

Now Tim he was a feeling man:

For when his sight was thick,
It made him feel for everything, -

But that was with a stick.

So, with a cudgel in his hand,

It was not light or slim, —
He knocked at his wife's head until

It opened unto him.

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,— his life

Is hanging on a thread.”

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,

In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth

Would soon be sifted out !

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,

Were sworn that very day; But though they all were jurors, yet

No conjurors were they.

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

The blood that I have spilt, Just like a button is my soul,

Inscribed with double guilt !

Then turning round his head again

He saw before his eyes
A great judge, and a little judge,

The judges of a-size!

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

(Fit punishment for such) On Horsham-drop, and none can say

It was a drop too much.


’T is very hard when men forsake
This melancholy world, and make
A bed of turf, they cannot take

A quiet doze,
But certain rogues will come and break

Their “bone repose.”

'T is 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,

And hearths posthumous.

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!

’T is 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 ?

One of these sacrilegious knaves,
Who crave as hungry vulture craves,
Behaving as the goul behaves,

'Neath churchyard wall, Mayhap because he fed on graves,

Was named Jack Hall.

By day it was his trade to go
Tending the black coach to and fro;
And sometimes at the door of woe,

With emblems suitable, He stood with brother Mute, to show

That life is mutable.

But long before they passed the ferry,
The dead that he had helped to bury,
He sacked — (he had a sack to carry

. The bodies off in.) In fact, he let them have a very

Short fit of coffin.

Night after night, with crow and spade, He drove this dead but thriving trade; Meanwhile his conscience never weighed

A single horsehair; On corses of all kinds he preyed,

A perfect corsair !

At last -- it may be, Death took spite, Or jesting, only meant to fright —

« ForrigeFortsett »