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.