Execution, The : A Sporting Anecdote Hon. Mr. Sucklethumbkin's Story
Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down,
He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,
And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in the crown;
He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head,
He let go the handle, and thus he said,
As the door, released, behind him bang'd:
'An't please you, my Lord, there 's a man to be hang'd. My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab --
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;
Through street and through square,
His high-trotting mare,
Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air.
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place
Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some alarm,
But did no great harm,
Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay
Two urchins at play,
Knocking down -- very much to the sweeper's dismay --
An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall
Near Exeter Hall,
Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall.
But eastward afar,
Through Temple Bar,
My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;
Never heeding their squalls,
Or their calls, or their bawls,
He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,
Where in front of the gaol, he
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, 'What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?'
The clock strikes Twelve -- it is dark midnight --
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met;
The tables are set;
There is 'punch,' 'cold without,' 'hot with,' 'heavy wet,'
Ale-glasses and jugs,
And rummers and mugs,
And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,
Cold fowl and cigars,
Pickled onions in jars,
Welsh rabbits and kidneys -- rare work for the jaws!--
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;And there is M'Fuze,
And Lieutenant Tregooze,
And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,
All come to see a man 'die in his shoes!' Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,
Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,
On all -- save the wretch condemn'd to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a Sun
As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such a scene of misery!--
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree!And hark!-- a sound comes, big with fate;
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes -- Eight!--
List to that low funereal bell:
It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!--
And see!-- from forth that opening door
They come -- HE steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more!
-- God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale wan man's mute agony,--
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,
Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,-- not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-- Enough --' tis done!
The bolt has fallen!-- the spirit is gone --
For weal or for woe is known but to One!--
-- Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!-- Ah me!
A deed to shudder at,-- not to see.