But when another week was gone,
He gave him stronger hope—
Instead of hanging on a thread,
Of hanging on a rope.
XV.
Ah! when he hid his bloody work,
In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth
Would soon be sifted out.
XVI.
But when the parish dustman came,
His rubbish to withdraw,
He found more dust within the heap,
Than he contracted for!
XVII.
A dozen men to try the fact,
Were sworn that very day;
But tho’ they all were jurors, yet
No conjurors were they.
XVIII.
Said Tim unto those jurymen,
You need not waste your breath,
For I confess myself at once,
The author of her death.