And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon 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

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred
He whistles 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