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But just when Tim had lived a month
In honey with his wife,
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,
But that was with a stick.
So, with a cudgel in his hand,
It was not light or slim, —
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,
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
The judges of a-size!
The great judge took his judgment-cap,
And put it on his head,
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
A quiet doze,
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
Alack! alack !
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,
'Neath churchyard wall, Mayhap because he fed on graves,
Was named Jack Hall.
By day it was his trade to go
With emblems suitable, He stood with brother Mute, to show
That life is mutable.
But long before they passed the ferry,
. 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 —