Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed into the dark inn yard, 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 landlords black-eyed daughter, Bess the landlords daughter Plaiting a love knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the 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 landlords daughter, The landlords black-eyed daughter.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.