I vowed that you should have my hand, But Fate gives us denial;

You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's, In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet. the little feet

You used to call so pretty,

There's one, I know, in Bedford Row, The t'other's in the city.

I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can ;

As for my trunk, it's all packed up
To go by Pickford's van.

I wish you'd go to Mr. P.

And save me such a ride;

I don't half like the outside place
They've took for my inside.

The cock it crows-I must be gone!
My William, we must part!
But I'll be yours in death, although
Sir Astley has my heart!

Don't go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;

They haven't left an atom there
Of my anatomie.

TIM TURPIN.

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

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, although she led
The life of any dog.

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 couldn't bear to eat;
For she was any thing 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 every thing—
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, oh! 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.

THE VISION.

"Plague on't! the last was ill enough,

This cannot but make better proof.”—COTTON,

As I sate the other night,

Burning of a single light,

All at once a change there came
In the color of the flame.

Strange it was the blaze to view,

Blue as summer sky is blue:

One! two! three! four! five! six! seven !

Eight! nine! ten! it struck eleven!

Pale as sheet, with stiffened hair,
Motionless in elbow chair-
Blood congealing-dead almost—
"Now," thought I, "to see a ghost!”

Strange misgiving, true as strange!
In the air there came a change,

And as plain as mortals be,
Lo! a Shape confronted me!