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.