The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
A highwayman came riding, riding, riding
A highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door

He'd a French ****ed hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin
A coat of 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 jeweled with a *****le, his pistol butts a-*****le
His rapier hilt a-*****le, under the jeweled sky

And over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn yard
And 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 long red love-knot into her long black hair

'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 the moonlight, watch for me by the moonlight
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way

He rose upright in the stirrups, he scarce could reach her hand
She loosened her hair in the ca*****t, his face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of the perfume came tumbling over his ******
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, oh, sweet waves in the moonlight
He tugged at his rein in the moonlight and galloped away to the west

He did not come at the dawning, he did not come at noon
And 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 said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead
They gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of a narrow bed
Two of them knelt at a ca*****t, with muskets at their side
There was death at every window, hell at one dark window
For Bess could see, through the ca*****t, the road that he would ride

They had tied her up to attention, with many a s******ing jest
And they had bound a musket beside her
With the barrel beneath her ******
'Now keep good watch' and they kissed her
She heard the dead man say, 'Look for me by the moonlight
Watch for me by the moonlight, I'll come to thee by the moonlight
Though hell 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, now, on the stroke of midnight, cold, on the stroke of midnight
The tip of one finger touched it, the trigger at least was hers

Tlot-tlot, had they heard it? The horses hoofs ring clear
Tlot-tlot, in the distance, were they deaf they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill
The highwayman came riding, riding, riding
The red-coats looked to the priming, she stood up straight and still

Tlot in the frosty silence, tlot, in the echoing night
Nearer came and nearer, her face was like a light
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath
Her finger moved in the moonlight, her musket shattered the moonlight
Shattered her ****** in the moonlight and warned him with her death

He turned, he spurred to the west, he did not know she stood
Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood
Not till the dawn had he heard it, his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter
The landlord's [Incomprehensible] daughter
Had watched for her love in the moonlight and died in the darkness there

And 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 the spurs in the gold moon, 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 the bunch of lace at his throat

Still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the 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