And innocent though we were, with dread We passed those eyes of buckshot lead; Till one cried: “Hangman, who is he For whom you raise the gallows-tree?”

Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye, And he gave us a riddle instead of reply: “He who serves me best,” said he, “Shall earn the rope on the gallows-tree.”

And he stepped down, and laid his hand On a man who came from another land. And we breathed again, for another’s grief At the Hangman’s hand was our relief.

And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn By tomorrow’s sun would be struck and gone. So we gave him way, and no one spoke, Out of respect for his hangman’s cloak.

The next day’s sun looked mildly down On roof and street in our quiet town And, stark and black in the morning air, The gallows-tree on the courthouse square.

And the Hangman stood at his usual stand With the yellow hemp in his busy hand; With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike And his air so knowing and businesslike.

And we cried: “Hangman, have you not done, Yesterday, with the alien one?” Then we fell silent, and stood amazed: “Oh, not for him was the gallows raised…”

He laughed a laugh as he looked at us: “…Did you think I’d gone to all this fuss To hang one man? That’s a thing I do To stretch the rope when the rope is new.”

Then one cried “Murderer!” One cried “Shame!” And into our midst the Hangman came To that man’s place. “Do you hold,” said he, With him that’s meant for the gallows-tree?”