Lirik Lagu The Highwayman - Loreena McKennitt
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The wind was a torrent of darknessamong the ghastly treesthe moon was a ghostly galleontossed upon the cloudy seasThe road was a ribbon of moonlightover the purple moorwhen the highwayman came riding,riding, riding,the highwayman came ridingup to the old inn door.
He'd a french cocked hat at his foreheada bunch of lace at his china coat of claret velvetand breeches of brown doe-skinThey fitted with nary a wrinklehis boots were up to the thighand he rode with a jeweled twinklehis pistol butts a-twinklehis rapier hilt a-twinkleunder the jeweled sky.
And over cobbles he clatteredand clashed in the dark inn-yardand he tapped with his whip on the shuttersbut all was locked and barredHe whistled a tune to the windowand who should be waiting therebut the landlord's black-eyed daughterBess, the landlord's daughterplaiting a dark red love knotinto her long black hair.
"One kiss my bonny sweetheart,I'm after a prize tonightBut I should be back with the yellow goldbefore the morning lightYet if they press me sharplyand harry me through the dayThen look for me by the moonlight,watch for me by the moonlightI'll come to thee by the moonlightthough hell should bar the way."
He rose up right in the stirrupshe scarce could reach her handBut she loosened her hair in the casementhis face burned like a brandAs a black cascade of purfumecame tumbling over his breastAnd he kissed its waves in the moonlightoh, sweet waves in the moonlightHe tugged at his rein in the moonlightand galloped away to the west.
He did not come at the dawninghe did not come at noonand out of the tawny sunsetbefore the rise of the moonWhen the road was a gypsy's ribbonlooping the purple moora redcoat troop came marchingmarching, marching,King George's men came marchingup to the old inn door.
They said no word to the landlordthey drank his ale insteadbut they gagged his daughter and bound herto the foot of her narrow bedTwo of them knelt at the casementwith muskets at their sideThere was death at every windowHell at one dark windowfor Bess could see through the casementthe road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attentionwith many a sniggering jestThey had bound a musket beside herwith the barrel beneath her breast"Now keep good watch" and they kissed hershe heard the dead man say"Look for me by the moonlightwatch for me by the moonlightI'll come to thee by the moonlightthough hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind herbut all the knots held good!but she writhed her hands 'til her fingerswere wet with sweat or bloodThey stretched and strained in the darknessand the hours crawled by like yearstill now on the stroke of midnightCold on the stroke of midnightthe tip of her finger touched itthe trigger at least was hers.
Tot-a-lot, tot-a-lot had they heard it?The horse's hooves rang clearTot-a-lot, tot-a-lot in the distancewere they deaf they did not hear?Down the ribbon of moonlightover the brow of the hillThe highwayman came riding,riding, riding,The redcoats looked to their primingshe stood up straight and still.
Tot-a-lot in the frosty silenceTot-a-lot in the echoing nightnearer he came and nearerher face was like a lightHer eyes grew wide for a momentshe drew a last deep breathThen her finger moved in the moonlighther musket shattered the moonlightshattered her breast in the moonlightand warned him with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the westhe did not know she stoodbowed with her head o'er musketdrenched with her own red bloodNot till the dawn he heard ithis face grew grey to hearhow Bess the landlord's daughterthe landlord's black-eyed daughterHad watched for her love in the moonlight,and died in the darkness there.
And back he spurred like a madmanshrieking a curse to the sky!With the white road smoking behind himand his rapier brandished high!Blood-red were the spurs in the golden noonwine-red was his velvet coatWhen they shot him down in the highwaydown like a dog on the highwayAnd he lay in his blood in the highwaywith a bunch of lace at his throat.
Still on a winter's night they saywhen the wind is in the treesWhen the moon is a ghostly galleontossed upon the cloudy seasWhen the road is a ribbon of moonlightover the purple moora highwayman comes riding,riding, riding,a highwayman comes ridingup to the old inn door.
~Lyrics are an adaptation of the old english poem 'The Highwayman'
He'd a french cocked hat at his foreheada bunch of lace at his china coat of claret velvetand breeches of brown doe-skinThey fitted with nary a wrinklehis boots were up to the thighand he rode with a jeweled twinklehis pistol butts a-twinklehis rapier hilt a-twinkleunder the jeweled sky.
And over cobbles he clatteredand clashed in the dark inn-yardand he tapped with his whip on the shuttersbut all was locked and barredHe whistled a tune to the windowand who should be waiting therebut the landlord's black-eyed daughterBess, the landlord's daughterplaiting a dark red love knotinto her long black hair.
"One kiss my bonny sweetheart,I'm after a prize tonightBut I should be back with the yellow goldbefore the morning lightYet if they press me sharplyand harry me through the dayThen look for me by the moonlight,watch for me by the moonlightI'll come to thee by the moonlightthough hell should bar the way."
He rose up right in the stirrupshe scarce could reach her handBut she loosened her hair in the casementhis face burned like a brandAs a black cascade of purfumecame tumbling over his breastAnd he kissed its waves in the moonlightoh, sweet waves in the moonlightHe tugged at his rein in the moonlightand galloped away to the west.
He did not come at the dawninghe did not come at noonand out of the tawny sunsetbefore the rise of the moonWhen the road was a gypsy's ribbonlooping the purple moora redcoat troop came marchingmarching, marching,King George's men came marchingup to the old inn door.
They said no word to the landlordthey drank his ale insteadbut they gagged his daughter and bound herto the foot of her narrow bedTwo of them knelt at the casementwith muskets at their sideThere was death at every windowHell at one dark windowfor Bess could see through the casementthe road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attentionwith many a sniggering jestThey had bound a musket beside herwith the barrel beneath her breast"Now keep good watch" and they kissed hershe heard the dead man say"Look for me by the moonlightwatch for me by the moonlightI'll come to thee by the moonlightthough hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind herbut all the knots held good!but she writhed her hands 'til her fingerswere wet with sweat or bloodThey stretched and strained in the darknessand the hours crawled by like yearstill now on the stroke of midnightCold on the stroke of midnightthe tip of her finger touched itthe trigger at least was hers.
Tot-a-lot, tot-a-lot had they heard it?The horse's hooves rang clearTot-a-lot, tot-a-lot in the distancewere they deaf they did not hear?Down the ribbon of moonlightover the brow of the hillThe highwayman came riding,riding, riding,The redcoats looked to their primingshe stood up straight and still.
Tot-a-lot in the frosty silenceTot-a-lot in the echoing nightnearer he came and nearerher face was like a lightHer eyes grew wide for a momentshe drew a last deep breathThen her finger moved in the moonlighther musket shattered the moonlightshattered her breast in the moonlightand warned him with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the westhe did not know she stoodbowed with her head o'er musketdrenched with her own red bloodNot till the dawn he heard ithis face grew grey to hearhow Bess the landlord's daughterthe landlord's black-eyed daughterHad watched for her love in the moonlight,and died in the darkness there.
And back he spurred like a madmanshrieking a curse to the sky!With the white road smoking behind himand his rapier brandished high!Blood-red were the spurs in the golden noonwine-red was his velvet coatWhen they shot him down in the highwaydown like a dog on the highwayAnd he lay in his blood in the highwaywith a bunch of lace at his throat.
Still on a winter's night they saywhen the wind is in the treesWhen the moon is a ghostly galleontossed upon the cloudy seasWhen the road is a ribbon of moonlightover the purple moora highwayman comes riding,riding, riding,a highwayman comes ridingup to the old inn door.
~Lyrics are an adaptation of the old english poem 'The Highwayman'
