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 hilts a-twinkle, 
under the jewelled sky.


And 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.

"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;
If they press me sharply, 
and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me be 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 in 
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 reins 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 her 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 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 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!
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; 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 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 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.


'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 in-door.