The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees, 
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor, 
And the highwayman came riding-- 
Riding--riding-- 
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door. 

He'd a French [bad word] hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin; 
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin. 
They [bad word] with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh! 
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle-- 
His rapier hilt a-twinkle-- 
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. 

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, 
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. 

Dark in the dark 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 landlord's daughter-- 
The landlord's black-eyed daughter; 
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say: 

"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 moonlight, 
Watch for me by moonlight,  [bad word] to thee by moonlight, though [bad word] should bar the way." 

He stood upright in the [bad word]  he scarce could reach her hand, 
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand 
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast, 
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight 
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!), 
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. 

He did [bad word] in the dawning; he did [bad word] at noon. 
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, 
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor, 
The redcoat troops 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 her casement, with muskets by their side; 
There was Death at every window, 
And [bad word] at one dark window, 
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. 

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest! 
They had tied a rifle 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 moonlight, 
Watch for me by moonlight,  [bad word] to thee by moonlight, though [bad word] should bar the way." 

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good! 
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! 
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, 
Till, on the stroke of midnight, 
Cold on the stroke of midnight, 
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! 

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest; 
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast. 
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again, 
For the road lay bare in the moonlight, 
Blank and bare in the moonlight, 
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain. 

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear; 
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance