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Music: Loreena McKennitt
lyrics: Alfred Noyes
abridged by Loreena McKennitt

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
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 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 pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle
under the jewelled sky.
And over the cobbles he clattered
and clashed in the dark innyard
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 dark 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
But she loosened her hair i' the casement!
His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume
came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed it's waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then 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 o' 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,
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 the casement,
with muskets at their side!
there was death at every window
and hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement,
The road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention
with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket 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 the moonlight
Watch for me 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 horse-hoofs were ringing clear
Tlot-tlot, in the distance!
Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight,
over the brow of the hill,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming!
She stood up straight and still!
Tlot in the frosty silence!
Tlot in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer!
Her face was like a light!
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.
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 he heard it;
his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed 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 i' 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 the bunch of lace at his throat.
Still of 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,
up to the old inn-door
END