The Highway Man

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the 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 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 And over 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 "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight 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 the moonlight Watch for me by the moonlight I'll come to thee by the 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 waves in the moonlight He tugged at his rein in the moonlight and galloped away to the west He did not come at the dawning, he did not come at noon And out of 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 marching 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 the casement with muskets at their side There was death at every window Hell at one dark window For Bess could see through the casement The road that he would ride They had tied her up to attention with many a snickering 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 the moonlight Watch for me by the moonlight I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way" She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good But 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 Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse's hooves ring clear Tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf 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 in the frosty silence! Tlot, in the echoing night Nearer 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 she 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 And back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky With a white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high Blood-red were the 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 a bunch of lace at his throat Still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon the 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