The poem
'Tis hard to hang a husky lad When larks are in the sky; It hurts when daffydills are glad To wring a neck awry, When joy o' Spring is in the sap And cheery in the sun, 'Tis sad to string aloft a chap, No matter what he done.
And sittin' in the pub o' night I hears that prison bell, And wonders if it's reely right To haste a man to hell,
For doin' what he had to do, Through greed, or lust, or hate . . . Aye, them seem rightful words to you, But me, I calls it - Fate.
Lots more would flout the gallows tree, But that they are afraid; And so to save society, I ply my grisly trade. Yet as I throttle eager breath And plunge to his hell-home Some cringin' cove, to me his death Seems more like martyrdom.
For most o' us have held betime Foul murder in the heart; And them sad blokes I swung for crime Were doomed right from the start. Of wilful choosing they had none, For freedom's most a fraud, And maybe in the end the one Responsible is - God.