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
And a bunch of lace at his chin
He'd a coat of the claret velvet
And breeches of brown doe-skin
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle
His pistol butts a-twinkle
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky