He did not come in 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
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her 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 muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by 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!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle 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 of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that 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 their priming! She stood up, straight and still

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-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 who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and 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
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 his spurs in 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 a bunch of lace at his throat