I am an executioner bold: I work near the deep, deep river,
          By the Traitor's Gate,
          Where many a fate
Is sealed when my axe doth quiver.

I dearly love my work, I dearly love my axe.
          When I chop off a head,
          That's the way I make bread,
With classic hacks and cracks,

          Some say I'm a lout and a clown;
          I often am called up to town.
          My tastes are domestic,
          I'm put in a mess quick
When told to do victims up brown.
I say brown—I mean red—a bright clear, healthy red.
I know when I die, with what food I'll be fed.
          When I pass in my checks
          An array of red necks,
All bleeding, will dance a quadrille round my bed.
          With a high diddle di.
          Diddle—Oh my, oh my!

          I live near the ocean.
          Oh, what a commotion,
When somebody has to be lopped off.
          When the bright beacon light,
          Sizzles out with delight,
"Come to town, there's a head to be chopped off."

          My friends line the road,
          As I leave my abode,
Jump on the saddle and gallop away.
          I hasten to go
          Where raising the dough,
By my art, is a very rare art I should say.
          The art of neat chops,
          Then stepping aside
          Before the blood pops.
          So not to collide,
          With the flow from Red Lane
          And the nasty red stain.
          With a high diddle di.
          Diddle—Oh my, oh my!

Oh, this is the song—ah yes—this is the ditty
I sang long ago when I worked in the city.
          A work then much needed,
          When necks were oft bleeded.
A work very useful, though minus of pity.

          This happened long ago,
          Oh misery—oh woe!
          Its all in the past tense.
          I'm now on the last fence.

          Since my axe flashed on high
          Many years have passed by.
It seems like a dream since I stood by the block.
          Because I retired
          Before I was fired,
And settled down here on my lone ocean rock.

          A true county squire,
          No champion liar,
No wonder I swell when I strut off.
I dream of the heads that I've cut off.
Dozens of Dukes—Earls and Queens,
Old men and young girls in their teens.
          From Cardinal Hay
          To Lady Jane Grey.
Two wives of King Hal,
Each one a game gal.
My, oh my! I've a good royal list.
          I shortened them all,
          Each head took a fall;
With one whiz, and one twist of my wrist.

          I cannot help but recollect,
          I cannot stop my retrospect,
          While on long winter nights,
          Far away from the frost rills.
          Burning log fire lights,
          Bring good cheer to my nostrils;
          Then terrible shocks to my rim rams.
          Like poisonous cats with the jim jams.
          So I sing my last song:
          It is sweet—nixie long—
          It is never a chestnut to me.
          With a high diddle di,
          Diddle—oh my, oh my!
          Here it is, let it siz, he, he, he!

I am an executioner bold, I work near the deep, deep river,
          By the Traitor's Gate,
          Where many a fate
Is sealed when my axe doth quiver.

          Oh, the axe, oh, the axe!
          Oh, the work it has done,
          And the fame it has won!
          Oh, the hacks, the deep hacks!

          Hurrah for the axe!
          Its crashes and cracks.
          I'll never forget.
          My lollipop pet.
When it whizzed, when it flashed,
When it hacked, when it slew.
When it caused a great flowing,
Of rose-colored hue.
          With a high diddle di.
          Diddle—oh my, oh my!
          My heart clings round my rusty love.
          My well-notched passive turtle dove.
          Oh, no, dear axe, nothing can now dissever.
          My soul from thee, my close companion ever.
          Amen, Amen!

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