The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon 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 the 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