And still on 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