TIM TURPlN by Thomas Hood
Tim Turpin he was
gravel-blind,
And ne'er had seen the
skies :
For Nature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.
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;
For he, like Pyramus, had cast
A wall-eye on her charms.
By day she led
him up and down.
Where'er he wished to
jog,
A happy wife, altho' she led
The life of any dog.
But just when
Tim had lived a month
In honey with his wife,
A surgeon ope'd 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 couldn'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 neighbours
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, oh ! when
I refect 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.
the
end back
to start
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