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 landlord’s daughter.
He did not come in the dawning.
He did not come at noon.
out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of 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 had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
Tlot-tlot;tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear.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.