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 claret velvet and breaches of brown doe skin,
They fitted with never a wrinkle, his boots were up to the thigh,
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a twinkle,
His rapier hilt a twinkle,under the jeweled sky