The wind was                             the gusty trees,
 The moon was                          upon cloudy seas,
 The road was                            the purple moor,
 And the highwayman      riding? Riding? riding?
 The highwayman came               the old inn-door.

 He'd a French                                             at his chin,
 A coat of                                 of brown doe-skin;
 They fitted with                                    to the thigh!
 And he rode                              pistol butts a-twinkle,
 His rapier hilt                  the jewelled sky.

 Over the cobbles                             the dark inn-yard,
 And he tapped                                            locked and barred;
 He whistled a                                    be waiting there
 But the landlord's                            the landlord's daughter,
 Plaiting a dark                        long black hair.

 And dark in                       a stable-wicket creaked
 Where Tim the                               white and peaked;
 His eyes were                              like mouldy hay,
 But he loved                              landlord's red-lipped daughter,
 Dumb as a                               the robber say?

 "One kiss, my                             a prize to-night,
 But I shall                                     the morning light;
 Yet, if they                                through the day,
 Then look for                            me by moonlight,
 I'll come to                                       bar the way."

 He rose upright                                  reach her hand,
 But she loosened                                          like a brand
 As the black                                  over his breast;
 And he kissed                                                     in the moonlight!)
 Then he tugged                                                 to the West.


 He did not                                 come at noon;
 And out o'                                   o' the moon,
 When the road                               the purple moor,
 A red-coat troop      marching? Marching? marching?
 King George's men                      the old inn-door.

 They said no                                  his ale instead,
 But they gagged                                           her narrow bed;
 Two of them                                     at their side!
 There was death                              one dark window;
 For Bess could                                          he would ride.

 They had tied                                a sniggering jest;
 They had bound                                      beneath her breast!
 "Now, keep good                                            dead man say?
 Look for me                         me by moonlight;
 I'll come to                                       bar the way!

 She twisted her                               knots held good!
 She writhed her                                      sweat or blood!
 They stretched and                                                 by like years,
 Till, now, on                                      stroke of midnight,
 The tip of                                       least was hers!

 The tip of                                           for the rest!
 Up, she stood                                  beneath her breast,
 She would not                               not strive again;
 For the road                                           in the moonlight;
 And the blood                                               love's refrain .

 Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had                    horse-hoofs ringing clear;
 Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in                                        did not hear?
 Down the ribbon                             of the hill,
 The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding!
 The red-coats looked                                 straight and still!

 Tlot-tlot, in the                               the echoing night!
 Nearer he came                          like a light!
 Her eyes grew                                 last deep breath,
 Then her finger                                    shattered the moonlight,
 Shattered her breast                             him---with her death.

 He turned; he                                 know who stood
 Bowed, with her                                         own red blood!
 Not till the                                 grey to hear
 How Bess, the                          landlord's black-eyed daughter,
 Had watched for                                        the darkness there.

 Back, he spurred                                  to the sky,
 With the white                                 rapier brandished high!
 Blood-red were his                                        his velvet coat,
 When they shot                                          on the highway,
 And he lay                                                     at his throat.

 And still of                                              in the trees,
 When the moon                             upon cloudy seas,
 When the road                               the purple moor,
 A highwayman comes riding? Riding? riding?
 A highwayman comes               the old inn-door.

 Over the cobbles                           the dark inn-yard;
 He taps with                                      locked and barred;
 He whistles a                                    be waiting there
 But the landlord's                            the landlord's daughter,
 Plaiting a dark                        long black hair.