The Highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor

And the highwayman came riding

Riding, riding

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin

A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin

They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle

His pistol butts a-twinkle

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn yard

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter

Bess, the landlord's daughter

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair

One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light

Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day

Then look for me by the moonlight

Watch for me by the moonlight

I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand

But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like abrand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight

(Oh, sweet waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west

He did not come at the dawning; he did not come at noon

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon

When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor

A red-coat troop came marching

Marching, marching

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed

Two of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side!

there was death at every window

and hell at one dark window

For Bess could see, through the casement

The road that he would ride

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest

They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

Now keep good watch! - And they kissed her

She heard the dead man say

Look for me by the moonlight

Watch for me by the moonlight

I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness and the hours crawled by like years!

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight

Cold, on the stroke of midnight

The tip of one finger touched it!

The trigger at least was hers!

Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs were ringing clear

Tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill

The highwayman came riding

Riding, riding!

The red-coats looked to their priming!

She stood up straight and still!

Tlot in the frosty silence! Tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment! She drew one last deep breath

Then her finger moved in the moonlight

Her musket shattered the moonlight

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know she stood

bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it; his face grew grey to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter

The landlord's black-eyed daughter

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there

Back, he spurred like a mad man, shrieking a curse to the sky

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were the spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat

when they shot him down on the highway

Down like a dog on the highway

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat

Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees

When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor

A highwayman comes riding

Riding, riding

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door