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.