PART ONE
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 jeweled
twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle,
under the jeweled 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.
PART TWO
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
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 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.