Nor ages stifled cries.

He does not know the sob of woe;
Black fear he does not know;
Hardly a word from his lips are heard,
And his ears heed no appeal.
His cruel chin reveals within
A nature hard as steel,
The hangman's thoughts are not of love,
Nor are they yet of hate;
They do not lift themselves above
The dungeon's iron gate;
Their interests are the knotted rope
And the heavy gallows weight.

His mind is filled with the counted killed
And the hope of more to come.
And the price they fling when men must swing,
Which makes a goodly sum;
For his reason waits on the law's black hates,
And, save for this, stands dumb.

The hangman's soul lies stiff and stark.
The hangman's heart is dead;
And the need of friends is a burnt out spark
For he is marked with the murder's mark.
And with blood upon his head.

In times of rest he knows no guest--
No hand will touch him, none!