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 blackeyed 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 a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; and he

kissed its

Waves in the moonlight, (oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

The 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 o' 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



The said no word to the landlord, the 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 windows,

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 of 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 moolight,

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 madman, 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.