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(A continuation of The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes)



The shot echoed across the courtyard, the flash highlighting the trees,

As the moon dipped below the waves of the turbulent cloudy seas.

And Tim the stable hand, in triumph so wickedly grinned,

As the smell of black powder, came from the window of the inn.



He laughed at his good fortune, the highwayman lay dead!

And Bess the innkeeper’s daughter would someday share his bed.

He rushed to her bedroom, hoping to see his body there;

The dead body of the highwayman, in the bedroom of Bess

    with the long black hair



Through the cobbled courtyard, on feet that ran on air,

To console with false modesty, Bess of the long black hair.

Redcoats from the doorway, grim faces looking black,

Tim congratulated them all, by patting them on the back..



A look into the bedroom and who should be laying there,

But poor dead Bess with a red ribbon in her hair.

Shot through the breast with a musket, marked with a dark red stain

Beautiful Bess, the landlord’s daughter

  The black-eyed landlord’s daughter

Would never see again.



Out through the courtyard he stumbled, filled with pain and rage;

Running away blindly as an animal freed from it’s cage.

Through the woods he hurried. knowing to not where

With thoughts of Bess the landlord’s daughter,

  The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

And her countenance so fair.



After dawn he found him, clothing blood red soaked

In a pool of blood, with the bunch of lace at his throat

On the ground he was just a man, nothing dangerous at all

Left to rot on the highway,

  Just another poor soul on the highway,

The highwayman seemed so small.



More tears did fall as the morning brought forth light

And Tim saw a love that was worthy of fight

For the highwayman did love and that is why he died

For Bess and the man she truly loved, he lamented with a cry:



“King George’s men did this!” he bellowed to the sky,

“And these deaths shall be avenged” as he held the rapier high

He stripped the body of weapons, and buckled the pistol to his waist

And imagined himself riding

  Riding, riding,

Vengeance, leaving a bitter taste.



And its said when the mist crawls along the purple moor,

The Kings brave men, stand afraid of what’s beyond the door.

When the moon hangs high, a beacon in the cluttered sky,

A highwayman comes riding

  Riding, riding,

With his pistol blazing, and rapier brandished high