"The Hangman" By Maurice Ogden

Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame-
And he paced our bricks with a different air
And built his frame on the courthouse square.

The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than capping still of the courthouse door.

And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime,
The Hangman judged with the yellow twist,
Of knotted hemp in his busy fist.

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 served me the best,” said he,
“Shall earn the rope on the gallows-tree.”

And he stepped down, and laid his hands
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 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 felt silent, and stood amazed:
“Oh, not for him was the gallows raised…”