He turned. He spurred to the west;he did not know who stood bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own blood! not till the dawn he heard it and his face grew grey to hear how bess, the landlords daughter, the landlords black-eyed daughter had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there
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
and still of a winters night they say, 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. over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn yard. he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred. he whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there but the landlords black-eyed daughter, bess the landlords daughter, plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.