THE HIGHWAYMAN But he loved the landlord’s daughter,//

By Alfred Noyes
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.//
Dumb as a dog/ he listened,/ and he heard the
PART ONE
robber say—//
The wind/ was a torrent of darkness/ among the
gusty trees.//
“One kiss,/ my bonny sweetheart,/ I’m after a
The moon/ was a ghostly galleon/ tossed upon
prize to-night,//
cloudy seas.//
But I shall be back/ with the yellow gold/ before
The road/ was a ribbon of moonlight/ over the
the morning light;//
purple moor,//
Yet,/ if they press me sharply,/ and harry me
And the highwayman/ came riding/
through the day,//
Riding/—riding—//
Then look for me/ by moonlight,/
The highwayman came riding,/ up to the old
Watch for me/ by moonlight,/
inn-door.//
I’ll come to thee/ by moonlight,/ though hell/
should bar the way.”//
He’d a French cocked-hat/ on his forehead,/ a
bunch of lace at his chin,//
He rose upright/ in the stirrups./ He scarce/
A coat/ of the claret velvet,/ and breeches of
could reach her hand,//
brown doe-skin.//
But she loosened her hair/ in the casement./ His
They fitted/ with never a wrinkle./ His boots/
face burnt/ like a brand//
were up to the thigh.//
As the black cascade of perfume/ came tumbling
And he rode/ with a jewelled twinkle,/
over his breast;//
His pistol/ butts a-twinkle,/
And he kissed its waves/ in the moonlight,//
His rapier/ hilt a-twinkle,/ under the jewelled
(O,/ sweet black waves/ in the moonlight!)
sky.//
Then he tugged/ at his rein in the moonlight,/
and galloped away/ to the west.//
Over the cobbles/ he clattered and clashed/ in
the dark inn-yard.//
PART TWO
He tapped/ with his whip/ on the shutters,/ but
all was locked and barred.// He did not come in the dawning./ He did not
come at noon;//
He whistled a tune/ to the window,/ and who
should be waiting there// And out of the tawny sunset,/ before the rise of
the moon,//
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,//
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon,/ looping
Bess,/ the landlord’s daughter,//
the purple moor,//
Plaiting a dark red love-knot/ into her long black
A red-coat troop/ came marching—//
hair.//
Marching/—marching—//
King George’s men/ came marching,/ up to the
And dark/ in the dark old inn-yard/ a stable-
old inn-door.//
wicket creaked//
Where Tim/ the ostler/ listened./ His face was
white and peaked.// They said no word/ to the landlord./ They drank
his ale instead.//
His eyes/ were hollows of madness,/ his hair/
like mouldy hay,//
But they gagged his daughter,/ and bound her,/ Tlot-tlot;/ tlot-tlot!/ Had they heard it?/ The
to the foot of her narrow bed.// horsehoofs ringing clear;//
Two of them knelt at her casement,/ with Tlot-tlot;/ tlot-tlot,/ in the distance?/ Were they
muskets at their side!// deaf that they did not hear?//
There was death/ at every window;// Down the ribbon of moonlight,/ over the brow
of the hill,//
And hell/ at one dark window;//
The highwayman/ came riding—/
For Bess could see,/ through her casement,/ the
road that he would ride.// Riding—/riding—//
The red coats/ looked to their priming!/ She
stood up,/ straight and still.//
They had tied her up/ to attention,/ with many a
sniggering jest./
They had bound a musket beside her,/ with the Tlot-tlot,/ in the frosty silence!/ Tlot-tlot,/ in the
muzzle/ beneath her breast!// echoing night!//
“Now,/ keep good watch!”/ and they kissed her./ Nearer he came/ and nearer./ Her face was like a
She heard the doomed man say—// light.//
Look for me/ by moonlight;/ Her eyes/ grew wide for a moment;// she drew
one last deep breath,//
Watch for me/ by moonlight;/
Then her finger/ moved in the moonlight,/
I’ll come to thee/ by moonlight,/ though hell/
should bar the way!// Her musket/ shattered the moonlight,//
Shattered her breast/ in the moonlight/ and
warned him/—with her death.//
She twisted her hands/ behind her;/ but all the
knots held good!//
She writhed her hands/ till her fingers were wet/ He turned./ He spurred to the west;/ he did not
with sweat or blood!// know who stood//
They stretched/ and strained in the darkness,/ Bowed,/ with her head/ o’er the musket,/
and the hours crawled by like years// drenched/ with her own blood!//
Till,/ now,/ on the stroke of midnight,// Not till the dawn/ he heard it,/ and his face grew
grey to hear//
Cold,/ on the stroke of midnight,//
How Bess,/ the landlord’s daughter,//
The tip/ of one finger/ touched it!/ The trigger/
at least was hers!// The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,//
Had watched for her love/ in the moonlight,/ and
died in the darkness there.//
The tip of one finger/ touched it./ She strove no
more/ for the rest./
Up,/ she stood up to attention,/ with the muzzle Back,/ he spurred like a madman,/ shrieking a
beneath her breast.// curse to the sky,//
She would not risk their hearing;/ she would not With the white road/ smoking behind him/ and
strive again;// his rapier brandished high.//
For the road/ lay bare in the moonlight;// Blood red/ were his spurs/ in the golden noon;/
wine-red/ was his velvet coat;//
Blank/ and bare/ in the moonlight;//
When they shot him down/ on the highway,/
And the blood/ of her veins,/ in the moonlight,/
throbbed to her love’s refrain.// Down like a dog/ on the highway,//
And he lay in his blood/ on the highway,/ with a
bunch of lace/ at his throat.//

. . .

And still of a winter’s night,/ they say,/ when the

Over the cobbles/ he clatters and clangs/ in the