holy night,
                 But in the shameful day.

               A prison wall was round us both,
                 Two outcast men were we:
               The world had thrust us from its heart,
                 And God from out His care:
               And the iron gin that waits for Sin
                 Had caught us in its snare.

               In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
                 And the dripping wall is high,
               So it was there he took the air
                 Beneath the leaden sky,
               And by each side a Warder walked,
                 For fear the man might die.

               Or else he sat with those who watched
                 His anguish night and day;
               Who watched him when he rose to weep,
                 And when he crouched to pray;
               Who watched him lest himself should rob
                 Their scaffold of its prey.

               The Governor was strong upon
                 The Regulations Act:
               The Doctor said that Death was but
                 A scientific fact:
               And twice a day the Chaplain called
                 And left a little tract.

               And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
                 And drank his quart of beer:
               His soul was resolute, and held
                 No hiding-place for fear;
               He often said that he was glad
                 The hangman's hands were near.

               But why he said so strange a thing
                 No Warder dared to ask:
               For he to whom a watcher's doom
                 Is given as his task,
               Must set a lock upon his lips,
                 And make his face a mask.

               Or else he might be moved, and try
                 To comfort or console:
               And what should Human Pity do
                 Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
               What word of grace in such a place
                 Could help a brother's soul?

               With slouch and swing around the ring
                 We trod the Fool's Parade!
               We did not care: we knew we were
                 The Devil's Own Brigade:
               And shaven head and feet of lead
                 Make a merry masquerade.

               We tore the tarry rope to shreds
                 With blunt and bleeding nails;
               We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
                 And cleaned the shining rails:
               And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
                 And clattered with the pails.

               We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
                 We turned the dusty drill:
               We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
                 And sweated on the mill:
               But in the heart of every man
                 Terror was lying