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 co*ked 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 j**eled twinkle, his pistol bu*ts a-twinkle
His rapier hilt a-twinkle under the j**eled 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 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 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
Then 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 of the moon
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor
A redcoat 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 d**h 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 sn******ging 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 'til her fingers were wet with sweat or blood
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
'Til 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-hoofs rang 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 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 d**h
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 'til 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 in 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 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