The                            wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
 The                            moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon 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 the 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.

 And                            dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
 Where                            Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
 His                            eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
 But                            he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
 Dumb                            as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say?

 "One                            kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
 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 moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,
 I'll                            come to thee by 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!)
 Then                            he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.


 He                            did not come in 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 matching, 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 her casement, with muskets at their side!
 There                            was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;
 For                            Bess could see, through her 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 moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;
 I'll                            come to thee by 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!

 The                            tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
 Up,                            she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
 She                            would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
 For                            the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;
 And                            the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

 Tlot-tlot;                            tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
 Tlot-tlot,                            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-tlot,                            in the frosty silence! Tlot-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 who 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 his 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.

 And                            still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
 When                            the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon 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.

 Over                            the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
 He                            taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
 He                            whistles 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.