I in the darkness deep Of the donjon-keep, Where the spiders spin their strands; In the home of bats And of old gray rats, Are my lord the turnkey’s lands. O, his task is light, But from morn till night On his rounds he needs must go. It is tramp, tramp, tramp, With his keys and lamp, In the corridors down below. Then it ’s ho! ho! ho! I am king of the donjon deep. There is music of bolt and chain In the turnkey’s dark domain. How merrily jingle the chains that cling! How cheerily tinkle the keys that swing! I am king—king—king of the donjon-keep! 2 Though the ravens scream From the gallows beam, It is little heed he takes; And a song he roars Through the corridors, As his watchful round he makes. None are false to him In his kingdom grim, For their monarch never sleeps. O, there ’s none dare say To the turnkey nay; He is king of the donjon deeps. Then it ’s ho! ho! ho! etc.
The Song of the Turnkey
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