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 pistole butts a twinkle, his rapier hilt a twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
i'll be back before the morning light
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn yard. he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. but the landlords black eyed daughter, bess, the landlords daughter, plaiting a dark red love knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn yard a stable wicket creacked 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 red lipped daughter. dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-